Downward Slope
by sitabethel
Summary: Brought back from the Shadows with magic, Bakura finds his soul barely attached to his newly created body. Marik is the only thing that makes him feel alive . . . but needing someone else terrifies Bakura. Post-Canon Thiefshipping /M Rated/ PWP
1. Chapter 1

*****I wasn't planning on posting anything for Valentine's Day, but there's like no Thiefshipping on the "just-in" page, and that's not cool. I feel like the Thiefshippers need to represent. C'mon guys, stop being lazy and start writing :) **

**Now, SuperSteffy is working on a really good Abridged fic that's for Valentine's Day, but it might be a little late (but keep your eyes opened for that because it's a good story), but until then, tide yourselves over with this. **

**Sorry, it's not beta'ed. I'm impulse posting again. I intend to add to this story a little bit, but not any time soon because I just wrote this for myself because the zombie story I'm working on has too much plot and it was giving me a headache. But, I think this serves close enough as a one shot to go ahead and post it anyway.*****

* * *

There was nothing.

That wasn't true.

There was pain, and cold, and a sense of panic, but Bakura had learned how to curl into the back of his mind and ignore the torment.

He thought of Marik.

Marik must have done the exact same as a child, trapped underground, bound, being carved alive . . . being carved alive . . . nowhere to go but his own mind. And the experience split the tomb-keeper in half. Bakura wondered if, he too, would split apart. Perhaps he would shatter, one-hundred Bakuras each as sharp, damaged, and unlucky as the fragments of a broken mirror littering the floor.

Because he curled into the deepest corner of his consciousness, Bakura didn't recognize the transition from dark to wet – both chilled him. Then he sucked in water instead of air. Instinct moved his body; he sat up, sputtering for air and shaking.

"It's okay," a voice said, and two hands held Bakura's chest. "It's okay. You're safe."

Marik's words sounded like a lie, but his voice did not. Bakura ripped his eyes opened, wanting to see Marik's face. Instead he saw light, and he cringed away from the brightness.

"Stop. Calm down. You'll hurt yourself."

Bakura swatted at the hands, but he didn't have enough strength to resist them. They pulled Bakura away from the cold water and wrapped something soft around his shoulders. He blinked his eyes, adjusting to the painful light. Bakura realized he stood in a bathroom, specifically in a bathtub filled with cold water.

"Am I alive?" he asked.

"Yes. It wasn't easy, but I had a lot of help." Marik helped Bakura step out of the frigid water, wrapping another towel around him. "Sorry it's so cold, the magic sucked the heat out of the water."

Bakura stood, quiet and shaking, trying to process that he lived. He caught his reflection in the mirror. "Why do I look like Ryou?"

"I tried to bring you back as you were," Marik said. "I used sand from Kul Elna, and Rishid managed to find what remained of the red cloak, but . . ." Marik shrugged. He wore an odd smile on his face. Bakura couldn't read it very well. Then again, he couldn't think very well, either.

Marik worked on drying Bakura's shivering body; a strange gentleness accompanied his actions. "Ryou donated some of his hair for the spell – because you two were joined together through the Ring it was the only thing I could think that would work. That might be why you look like him."

"What spell?" Bakura asked. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he shouldn't stand there naked while Marik fussed over drying his body, but everything confused him and he couldn't move.

"Ishizu gave it to me." Marik smiled again, and it confused the hell out of Bakura. "I thought people would try to stop me – when I told them I wanted to find a way to bring you back – but everyone helped instead. They think . . . maybe . . ." Marik's gaze shifted to the floor. "There's more to you than what you showed people, more than a vengeful spirit."

Bakura didn't understand a word Marik said. Dizziness swept over Bakura, and he felt himself fall. Marik caught him, lifting him up with his strong, copper arms.

"Stay with me, Bakura. Bakura? Keep your eyes open."

Bakura registered being carried, and being laid down on a large bed. He noted the soft, warm feel of the comforter below him, and the softer, warmer feel of Marik's skin, but he couldn't process the information correctly. "I want to sleep."

"Not yet." Marik's voice sounded concerned. "You have to stay awake. You have to make sure that your soul bonds with the body the spell created. The cloak was the only thing from your past that we found that would work. Do you understand, Bakura? This is the only chance I have to bring you back. _Stay with me_. I swear to the gods you better not die in my arms, Bakura."

He gave Marik a weak snort to dismiss the notion of dying. Then again . . . his breathing felt light and shallow, and the dizziness refused to leave. He was going to float above his body and then spiral out into space, into another cold, black void that would swallow him.

Two warm hands held his face. Marik loomed above him, screaming. "Come on, you stupid bastard! You've never given up on anything! Don't start now – fight it! _Stay with me_!"

Bakura blinked back awake; he stared at Marik. He'd always considered Marik attractive, but he never had time to appreciate it. Marik's hair and earthy shoulders were like the light of god spilling over a mountain range at dawn. Bakura found himself reaching up and drawing his fingers through that divine gold.

Marik gasped, closing his eyes for half a second. The reaction made Bakura smile, made him feel a little more anchored to the world. He reached up again and brushed the pads of his new, white fingers down the contour of Marik's high cheek bone.

"Bakura," Marik whispered. He dropped down, his lips ghosting across Bakura's mouth.

Bakura sucked in a sharp breath. It felt like his first _real_ breath. Marik kissed him a second time. Bakura needed more than the light brushes of their lips. He twined his fingers into Marik's hair, dragging him closer still and pushing their mouths hard against each other. Bakura lost control of himself. He acted on instinct, grabbing and clawing at Marik's shoulders, tasting Marik's lips, tongue, and throat.

Marik panted, his breath throbbed just below the skin of his throat, and Bakura felt it against his tongue. He sucked at Marik's skin, trying to reach that breath, that life, so close to Bakura's mouth. Marik called out, and the sound of his voice made Bakura's heart beat hard enough for Bakura to notice it for the first time.

He was alive.

Marik had brought him back to life.

Bakura's fingers tugged at the black, sleeveless shirt that served as a barrier between their bodies. Marik grabbed the hem, stripping the cloth away in a strong, single motion. The heat from Marik's chest settled across Bakura's body and warmth replaced the cold inside him.

His fingers mapped out all the curves and lines of Marik's chest. Before he knew what he did, Bakura found himself tracing the ridged scar tissue on Marik's back. A shocked noise burst from Marik. Bakura pulled his hands away at the sound of it, but Marik grabbed Bakura's wrist and returned Bakura's hand to the scars on Marik's back. Bakura scrambled out from beneath Marik, pressing the other male down on his stomach. He ran both hands down Marik's back, fascinated by the contrast of their skin tones. He kissed Marik's scars, starting at the bottom and working his way up until he reached the wings on Marik's shoulders.

Marik called out and writhed below Bakura's body as Bakura lavished Marik's back with kiss after reverent kiss. When finished, Bakura flipped Marik onto his back, so he could taste his lips again. Marik worked the button loose from his jeans and tore the zipper down. He bucked his hips up in order to slide his pants off of his body. Now each bare inch of Bakura's body was met with an equally bare inch of Marik's body with no cloth to diminish the experience. They rolled against each other, and Bakura savored each second of contact.

Marik flipped Bakura back onto the mattress, once again reversing their positions. He showered Bakura's chest with light bites. His fingers rubbed Bakura's small, firm nipples. Bakura grabbed Marik's hips, pushing up, needing Marik more at that moment than he'd ever needed vengeance.

"Bakura," Marik gasped out the name that Bakura had stolen, but when Marik said it – Bakura felt like it was truly his. "Maybe . . . maybe we should slow down."

"I'll die without you," Bakura spoke the words before he could think them. He felt alive at the moment, breath strong in his chest, heart ricocheting in his ribcage, but Bakura somehow knew that without Marik's weight bearing down on Bakura's body, Bakura's _ba_ and _ka_ would fly away, lost and unable to unite into an _akh_.

Marik gave Bakura a soft laugh and a kiss. He reached over to his nightstand, pulling a bottle out of a drawer.

Bakura felt the cold gel against his skin, but Marik's fingers warmed the lubrication up a moment later. Bakura squirmed as Marik prepped him, wanting more than the small touches. When Marik entered him, he groaned. Bakura wrapped his arms around Marik's neck and wrapped his legs around Marik's back, keeping their bodies pressed as close together as possible.

Marik pushed in and pulled away, his expression lost in rapture. Content, euphoric moans echoed in Bakura's ears. Bakura kept his eyes opened. He wanted to watch Marik's face as they moved and sweated together. Time didn't matter, and Bakura couldn't guess how long the the sweet, yearning rhythm of their bodies continued to go back and forth, but after awhile, Marik slipped his hand between their bodies and started to stroke Bakura. Mere minutes after Bakura felt Marik's touch, he came with Marik's name honey-thick on his tongue. Afterward, Bakura held Marik tighter until the former tomb-keeper shook, and called out, and settled on top of Bakura's chest.

"Can I sleep now?" Bakura teased.

Marik watched Bakura's face. "How do you feel?"

"Drunk."

"Do you feel light-headed? Or dizzy? Half here?"

"Not anymore," Bakura confessed.

Marik released a relieved sigh. "Welcome back, Bakura."

* * *

Bakura started awake, looking around and trying to gather his bearings. He lay in a bed, both a blanket and Marik half draped over Bakura's pale body. On each side of them sat a nightstand, and on each stand sat a small lamp that gave the room a soft, ambient glow.

Bakura untangled himself from Marik's arms and slipped out of bed. He felt sticky and sore as he walked around the room. Outside the bedroom window, the world looked dark, and the city street below looked crowded. Bakura blinked at the street for a minute before he realized he recognized the street – they were in Domino City, not Luxor. He let go of the curtain and searched the rest of the apartment. Bakura noticed the small, one bedroom apartment had either a light, or night light in every area, and the small, multiple light sources made Bakura's shadow fan out and multiply against the wall.

Bakura checked the refrigerator. He drank some orange juice straight from the carton and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Once Bakura knew the layout of the apartment, he crashed on the couch and fell back asleep.

He awoke to Marik shaking him.

"Go away." Bakura swatted at Marik and turned so that he faced the sofa cushions.

"Why are you on the couch?" Marik asked.

Bakura half-thought of the question, his mind still a touch fuzzy from resurrecting. "I'm a grown man, perfectly capable of sleeping by myself."

"Oh," Marik said, his voice flat. "Guess that makes sense."

A pause stretched out in the room, long enough for Bakura to start dozing again before Marik's voice interrupted him. "Do you remember last night?"

"Marik, I'm sleeping."

"You can sleep all day if you want. Answer my question."

Bakura rolled on his back, looking up at Marik's face. Flashes of memory ignited in Bakura's thoughts. Marik, holier than the sun, grander than Ra, pressing hard and fast into Bakura's body. Bakura felt his face flush at the memory. He felt vulnerable, so Bakura shoved his face back in the couch cushions. "You pulled me from the Shadows."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because . . ." Marik cleared his throat. "Because . . . because we wanted to give you a second chance."

"We?"

"Yeah . . . we. Ishizu, Rishid, Ryou, me, we all helped."

Bakura frowned, peeking over his shoulder. "Why?"

"I already told you," Marik snapped.

"That seems . . . a waste of magic."

"It was our magic to waste." Marik crossed his arms over his chest. "Show a little gratitude, asshole."

"Fine. Whatever. Thanks."

Bakura opened his mouth again, to say more, to say all the things he _felt_, but it was too much, so he clamped his lips shut and closed his eyes again.

Marik huffed, forfeiting and walking away. "And don't leave the juice on the counter. I didn't bring you back to be your maid."

"Then why did you bring me back!" Bakura screamed the question, so loud that he jerked at the sound of his own voice. He only had a side glance of Marik, but he saw the shock on the tomb-keeper's face.

"I told you," Marik whispered.

"Yeah, a so-called second chance. Why?"

Marik shrugged. "Never gave you the Rod like I promised. Consider this your consolation prize. I'd offer the secret on my back as well, but . . ." Marik stormed off until all Bakura could see were the sofa cushions, but he still heard Marik's voice. "Guess you got all you needed out of my back last night."

Then he was gone, leaving Bakura naked and curled into the couch as if to shield himself. Bakura kept touching his lips, tracing the soft skin and remembering how he kissed each scar, and kissed Marik's mouth afterward. Bakura's thighs tensed, ready to spring up and chase after the other male, but Bakura's fingers dug into the couch cushions to keep him in place.

That's how he fell asleep, exhausted and confused. He woke up when something landed on him. Bakura sat up. "What's this?"

"Clothes. They're mine, but they'll have to do while we go shopping."

Bakura tossed on the black t-shirt, for something to wear, for some sort of protection. "Don't bother, I'll just—"

"Steal something?" Marik finished Bakura's sentence and then sat down on the coffee table, looking at the former thief. "No, Bakura. Remember? This is suppose to be a chance for you _not_ to be a thief. We're going shopping and buying clothes like everyone else does."

"I don't want to owe you anything." Bakura gritted his teeth, hands fisting around the pair of khakis Marik had dropped on him.

A sad look fluttered across Marik's eyes. He looked away to hide the expression. "You don't owe me anything. As far as I'm concerned – we're still partners."

"Partners for _what_? There's no more Pharaoh. I lost my last chance to get vengeance." Bakura couldn't stand being naked at that moment. He stood up and slipped the pants over his lower half, _needing _the clothing. He felt better dressed.

"Look." The sadness returned to Marik's face. "Back then . . . when I needed help – you helped me. Let me even the score, okay?"

"Is that all this is? You evening the score?"

"Would you _like_ it to be more?"

_Of course he did._

"I'd _like_ for you to quit playing games and just tell me where I stand, Ishtar."

Marik's golden eyebrows furrowed. "You tell me."

Bakura dropped back down to the sofa. His legs couldn't support his weight any longer. "I'm tired."

"The more you use your new body, the better you'll feel. The spell said it could take a few days for the soul to completely settle in after the initial bonding."

A crooked smile marred Bakura's face. "Use my body? I wouldn't mind using it some more."

Marik returned Bakura's smile. "So you _do_ remember last night?"

Bakura thought a moment before answering the question. "Vaguely."

He remembered everything, but he couldn't tell Marik how much he'd needed the tomb-keeper the night before. He'd seem too weak. He used to be strong, with the Ring, when hate drove him like a whip, but now the Pharaoh was gone, and Bakura felt far too weak without his hatred to fuel him.

Bakura added, "I remember enough to know that you're a good lay."

"It was easy . . ." his voice dropped to a soft volume, "with you."

Bakura stared at his knees. "Well . . . we always did make a good pair, didn't we?"

Marik rested his hand on Bakura's knee. "What do you want, Bakura?"

He jerked at the question. "What do you mean?"

"You're alive, and there's no Pharaoh to chase after. What do you want?"

The room spun; Bakura closed his eyes. "I don't know. I – I want . . ."

_To kiss you._

"To sleep. I just want to sleep. I'm tired."

Marik shook his head. "Food will help, and moving. You can't just sleep. I told you, you need to get used to this body."

Bakura jabbed at his stomach, the black t-shirt hung loose around his midsection. "Stupid, scrawny body."

Marik grinned. "You look good in it."

Bakura tried standing up again, rolling his eyes. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not nice enough to patronize you."

Bakura's stomach rumbled loudly. He pressed his hands on his stomach as if that could mute the noise. For some reason, the very physical, very human, bodily reaction made him feel ridiculous. He'd been above such things, as a spirit in the Ring.

"You need food. Let's go."

Marik's shoes were too big, more so than the clothes, but Bakura had no choice but to plod along in them while they went somewhere to eat. The closest place was a Western-style hamburger restaurant. It was the sort of place teenagers liked to hang out at, but the smell of food lured Bakura through the doors and to the front counter. He ordered three hamburgers, rare, no fries, and a chocolate malt. Bakura normally didn't care for dessert, but his body craved the sugar as well as the meat.

At the table, Marik kept an amused look on his face.

"What?" Bakura snapped.

"I've never watched you eat before. You have the grace of a starved dog."

Bakura wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Marik rolled his eyes and handed him a paper napkin. "Here."

Bakura stared at it. He gave up and used it to dry the blood off of his lips and wrist.

"Not to say you don't pull it off well." Marik nibbled on his french fries as he considered Bakura.

"Pull off what?" Bakura only half-listened. The second hamburger tasted better than the first.

"The starved dog look. It's rather appealing on you."

Bakura grunted as he ignored Marik, shoveling the rest of the burger into his mouth. The third hamburger tasted better than the first two, and the shake completed the meal.

* * *

When they returned home, Marik lead Bakura to the back room. He stepped into his closet, sliding hangers around to give Bakura some closet space.

Bakura frowned. "Why are we sharing a closet?"

"Because it's a one bedroom apartment," Marik answered.

"But it will be inconvenient to come in here for clothes if I sleep on the couch."

"Then don't sleep on the couch."

"I . . . I'd rather sleep on the couch."

Marik glared at Bakura. The pale purple of his eyes reminded Bakura of ice and flames at the same time. "Bakura?" Marik asked. "Do you regret last night?"

Regret it? It had been the only beautiful experience Bakura had ever had in three thousand years. Marik had brought Bakura back to life more than any spell ever could. It had been so real, and pure, and complete, that Bakura felt his hands tremble at the mere memory of it, but all he could do was shake his head and mutter "no" while hoping Marik didn't notice that Bakura trembled.

"Then what's your problem?"

"Nothing," Bakura snapped, balling his hands into fists and storming out of the closet. "I just need a little space, Ishtar." He escaped from the room and down the hall, but he didn't know what to do with himself. He ended up in the kitchen, slumped into a wooden chair and drinking juice from the carton again.

A minute later, Marik appeared. He scowled at Bakura, taking a glass from the cupboard and slamming it onto the table.

"That's too small," Bakura murmured into the carton before taking another swig.

"It's a juice glass."

Bakura shook his head _no._ "It's too small."

"So, what? Now you're just going to sit there and drink all my juice?"

Bakura nodded his head _yes_ and stole another drink from the carton.

Marik opened his mouth to yell, then stopped. "Wait, are you doing this to be an asshole, or are you still hungry?"

"I'm not . . . hungry." Bakura thought of Marik's question, wanting to know the answer himself. "Shit, I don't know what's wrong with me. I just want sugar, okay?"

"Oh." Marik sat down across from Bakura.

The kitchen was a small square, enough room for appliances and the table but nothing else. It didn't bother Bakura, however, to be snugged up in a small space with Marik. In fact, Bakura didn't want to admit how much he liked the feeling.

Marik rested his cheek in his hand, considering Bakura again. "It makes sense. You need the simple carbohydrates."

"How does that make sense?" Bakura paid more attention to Marik's lips than his words.

"Energy, Bakura. Your body is new and it needs quick energy while it's adjusting."

"Oh," Bakura said, setting the empty carton down next to the unused juice glass. "I hope you didn't want any, because I really did drink it all."

A small smile teased the corner of Marik's mouth. "I'll give you some money to go to the store tomorrow."

Bakura smirked. "Do you really trust me? I might go and dice it away."

"Like you'd lose in a dice game." Marik stood up. "And yes, I really trust you. You're the only person, besides my siblings, that I've ever trusted."

The words made Bakura look away, staring at the juice glass instead of the golden haired beauty only a table's length away from him. "Marik?"

"What?"

"I do . . . appreciate it, you know – you bringing me back."

Marik shrugged. "What are partners for?"

* * *

*****And thanks to Supersteffy and Revengineer for leaving corrections in the reviews :) *****


	2. Chapter 2

*****I haven't posted anything in a while, so here's chapter 2. Fair warning, there is no plot to this story. It's just multi-chaptered pwp. I'll even tell you how I plan to end it - with a Thiefshipping lemon and then cuddles. Bakura may or may not have a stupid smile on his face . . . he probably will. So, you've been warned.*****

* * *

Bakura lay on the couch. This time a pillow rested beneath his head and a blanket lay over his body. He looked at the ceiling, staring at the squares and slants of nightlight and shadow that created a monochromatic stained -glass look on the walls and ceiling.

He shook, pulling the blanket close around his shoulders, but it didn't help. He kept thinking about the night before, how warm Marik's body felt as they touched. Bakura shut his eyes tight to avoid the memories, but shutting his eyes only made him dizzy. Bakura sat up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, and walked down the hall to Marik's room.

He watched the way the lamp-light played off of Marik's hair, and Bakura stumbled forward, wanting to touch it. He stopped beside Marik, sneaking long, pale fingers through Marik's locks. Marik sighed, a happy expression on his sleeping face. Bakura couldn't seem to pull his hand away, although he stood there shaking from the cold.

Marik's eyes fluttered open. "Bakura? What's wrong?"

"I'm cold. Give me another blanket."

"I don't have another blanket. Lay here if you're cold."

Bakura wanted to. He couldn't stop thinking about how warm Marik felt the night before, but he didn't sit down, merely stood and touched Marik's hair.

"Are you going to lay down, or pet me all night?"

Bakura grunted, neither confirmation or rejection. He managed to drop his hand down to his side. He was afraid to lay next to Marik. If he did, he would hold Marik, and caress him, and he'd never be able to let go – _never_. He needed Marik, and couldn't stand the thought.

Marik rolled his eyes up to Bakura's face. "Bakura?"

"Hmmm?" Bakura asked.

Marik sat up, grabbing Bakura's hand. "Shit, Bakura, you're freezing."

"I told you I was cold."

"No. You're freezing. Come here." Marik pulled Bakura down until they both sat on the mattress. Bakura didn't have the strength to stand back up, so he sat there and watched as Marik's copper toned hands rubbed Bakura's bare shoulders.

Bakura tried not to react to the touch, but his eyes sank closed, and Bakura heard himself sigh with deep pleasure at the warmth seeping into his shoulders. He felt Marik tense slightly at the sound Bakura made, and Bakura would have ran to the couch if his legs didn't feel like well-done pasta.

"Bakura, don't fall asleep," Marik said.

Bakura opened his eyes. "Is this going to happen every night? The cold?"

Marik shook his head. "It shouldn't, but maybe for the next few nights. Your blood pressure drops when you rest – that happens to be bad for new, magically created bodies with the souls barely attached."

Marik looked at Bakura, a little panicked. He pressed Bakura against his warm, bronzed chest. Bakura heard himself sighing again, and he wished he could stop it.

"Does that help?" Marik asked.

"This is good," he whispered.

"Oh?" Marik grinned. "You like being held?"

"No!" Bakura shouted and pushed Marik away. "I was just using you like a heating-pad."

Marik's face fell, a wry expression replacing his former, happier look. "You're such a parasite."

Bakura shrugged. "Habit's a bitch."

"Fine." Marik said the word in a harsh, final way, laying back down and pushing his face in his pillow. "Go jog around the block if you're so cold. I'm not a damn space heater."

Bakura gripped the comforter back around his shoulders, shivering again without Marik's touch. Too weak to leave, too scared to admit to Marik that he wanted to be held, Bakura used the last of his energy to laugh. He laughed a long time, and after he stopped, his cackling still echoed off the wall. He smirked. "Hey Marik, want to fuck?"

Marik flinched at the suggestion, gritting his teeth before answering. "I have to work tomorrow."

"It will get my heart pumping, won't it?"

_Because the damn thing doesn't work without you._

Instead of saying the last thought, Bakura licked his lips and waited for Marik's retort.

"Are you going to run off to the couch afterward?"

Bakura looked away. "Of course. I don't want to snuggle. I just want to warm up so I can go to sleep."

Marik snorted. "I don't see why I should bother with you, then. I already told you, I'm not a damn space heater."

Bakura looked at Marik, licking his lips again and focusing on Marik's face. "I mean . . . do _you_ want me to stay and cuddle? You never seemed the cozy type."

A shocked, guilty look washed over Marik's face. "O-of course I'm not. That would be stupid."

"Then why do you care if I go afterward?"

"I don't." Marik sat back up and bit Bakura's bottom lip. "Fine, then, I'll fuck you."

Normally, Bakura would welcome a bite, but his body felt tender and he winced at the gesture. Marik shoved Bakura against the mattress and got the lube out of his nightstand. He pulled down Bakura's pants and started prepping Bakura without further foreplay, paying the same amount of attention to Bakura's body that one might pay to a dishwasher while loading it full of dirty plates – a duty to get over with, something mundane and habitual.

Bakura grunted when Marik added a second finger. The night before, Marik's fingers weren't enough, and Bakura couldn't wait until Marik entered him. The current moment felt different. Marik wasn't into the act, and Bakura felt uncomfortable even with the lubrication. Bakura closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. He knew it was his fault. Had he let Marik hold him a little longer, admitted what he _really _wanted, then they could have repeated the previous night's experience. Instead, Bakura asked to be fucked, so Marik was fucking him. Motions without feelings, a crass, biological response, Bakura shifted his body regardless, trying to get into the act despite the discomfort of it. It was still Marik, after all, it was still the only person Bakura ever felt truly connected to.

Bakura arched his back, sliding his fingers down his flat, frost-white stomach. He toyed with his flaccid cock, thinking of the night before to encourage it to grow in his hand.

"Marik," Bakura whispered, a prayer to the one who'd pulled him out of darkness when even the gods abandoned him.

And Marik, far better than the gods, seemed to hear the prayer in Bakura's tone. An irritated grunt escaped Marik's mouth, and Bakura opened his eyes to look up at his golden-haired lover. Marik looked a touch angry, but mostly miserable, like he wanted to do more but felt restricted.

"Marik," Bakura whispered again, keeping his voice as low and silky as he could, trying to express himself through tone rather than words.

The blonde made another aggravated noise before jerking his hand away from Bakura's body. He grabbed Bakura's side and flipped the paler male onto his stomach.

Bakura blinked, his view of Marik replaced by a less interesting pillow. "What are you doing, Marik?"

"Last night you did whatever you wanted to my back. I think I should get revenge for that."

Bakura opened his mouth to argue, but gasped when Marik's tongue teased Bakura's tail-bone. Bakura gripped the front edge of the mattress and tried not to squirm as Marik massaged Bakura's lower back with both lips and tongue. As Marik meandered up Bakura's back, his fingers explored Bakura's sides. They skimmed across Bakura's ribs, kneaded into his hips, and teased the sensitive skin right below his ass. The touch, the light, sweet touch of Marik's fingers brought more pleasure to Bakura's body than a thousand one-night stands ever could.

"I'm afraid my back's not as beautiful to look at," Bakura whispered into his pillow.

Marik heard him, snorting before he replied. "I think it is. It's long, and white, and there isn't a scratch on it. That makes it beautiful – the fact that it's pure."

"Unadorned," Bakura corrected. "Scars aren't impurities – they're decorations."

"Whatever," Marik mumbled into Bakura's skin as his tongue trailed up Bakura's spine.

Bakura felt his breath quicken as Marik continued to drag his tongue against Bakura's skin. "I-it's true. My first body had scars, and – O-oh Marik!"

Marik's fingers found their way back inside Bakura and this time Bakura hinged his hips back, encouraging Marik to press them deeper. Marik sucked on the nape of Bakura's neck, smothered Bakura's shoulders with light kisses, and Bakura moaned into his pillow.

Marik's mouth graced across Bakura's shoulder blades and up to his shoulders. Bakura shifted as Marik worked to always give Marik the easiest access to whatever area of Bakura's back he kissed.

Removing his fingers again, Marik slipped into Bakura's body, pressing himself all the way in and holding a moment. Bakura panted. His cheeks burned and sweat dabbled around his temples.

"Looks like you're warm now," Marik whispered into Bakura's ear, his breath a hot, soft tickle against Bakura's skin.

"Told you this would work," Bakura meant the words to sound cock-sure and bold, but he couldn't speak above a lusty whisper.

Marik slipped Bakura's white mane over his left shoulder, fully exposing the nape of Bakura's neck. Marik gave the ivory skin a gentle nip, a reprimand for Bakura's back-talk. Bakura buried his face into the pillow, using the goose-down to mute his moans. Marik moved slow, and Bakura savored the sensation. He could feel the ridge of Marik's tip massage the nerves inside his body as Marik prolonged each slow thrust.

His lungs burned; Bakura lifted his head above the pillow to suck in deep breaths of cool air. Marik chose that moment to thrust quick, hard, and deep, forcing a unrestrained cry from Bakura's mouth. The thrust rammed against an area of nerves unreached the night before while Bakura had lain on his back.

Marik took Bakura's shout as encouragement, repeating the savage thrust, and Bakura shouted again. By the third pass, Bakura was all but undone. Each time Marik reached the pinnacle of his thrust, Bakura felt a stab so intense, so spectacular, that it was like a flash of orgasm, a tease of what could be, but then it was gone again before Bakura could fully ride the feeling to true completion. It drove him mad, deliriously, gorgeously mad, and he couldn't stop crying out in ecstasy as Marik continued.

Marik leaned lower, allowing their bodies to slip closer. He grabbed the tops of Bakura's hands. The position felt intimate with them stacked together like one, complete body, and Marik's weight pressed Bakura's erection into the sweat-damp, silk sheets.

"Is this what you wanted?" Marik asked, his voice a lusty purr tickling Bakura's eardrum.

"Gods yes!" Bakura called out, too lost in the beauty and thrill of the moment to worry if he sounded eager and wanton instead of indifferent.

"Really?"

"Yes!"

And it was really what he had wanted, the passion, the intensity, the intimacy of the night before repeated. Between the pressure on his cock from Marik's body-weight, the slick yet soft friction from the sheets, and the mind-numbing jolt of Marik's tip hitting Bakura's prostate, Bakura thighs quivered as orgasm approached even without being stroked.

"Is this what you wanted?" Marik asked again, his voice changed from a purr to a sultry growl.

"Yes!" Bakura arched his back, the shaking in his limbs turning violent. "Yes! Yes, baby, yes! I'm cumming!"

Through the roller-coaster of orgasm, Bakura heard a strangled noise from Marik, and then felt the warmth of Marik's own climax spill inside Bakura's body. As soon as the thrill faded, as soon as the amusement park ride ended, Bakura hid his face into the pillow, allowing his hair to mask his expression. Bakura never felt embarrassment before. A vague impression of the emotion through Ryou perhaps, but he had never known the feeling first-hand. Yet as he lay there, his eyelashes tickling the pillowcase beneath him, Bakura felt his cheeks burn. Marik had made Bakura finish without even touching him, had made Bakura call out like they were boyfriends finishing a first date.

Bakura kept his face hidden, kept his body still. He couldn't handle looking at Marik at that moment, didn't want to see the leer on Marik's face when the tomb-keeper realized how much he'd managed to unravel his lover. The experience had been what Bakura wanted, but now he couldn't stand the sheer truth of that notion.

But Marik didn't boast or make a snide remark. He merely kissed Bakura's shoulders, and the smooth, pale nape of Bakura's neck. "Bakura?"

Bakura refused to move or acknowledge Marik in any way.

Marik waited for a response, using the delay to grace more kisses up and down Bakura's neck while tracing his fingers along Bakura's hair. "Bakura? Are you asleep?"

Bakura exhaled, as if he were sleeping. Otherwise, he kept still and quiet.

Marik pressed a final kiss into Bakura's skin before shifting so he lay on his own side of the of the mattress, one copper arm and one copper leg still draped across Bakura's body. As they lay together, just so, side by side, Bakura did fall asleep, lost in comfort and warmth.

When his eyes opened, the apartment carried the still, silent feel of pre-dawn morning. Bakura crawled out from beneath Marik's limbs and grabbed his own blanket before stumbling down the hall. Bakura's thighs trembled from the exertion he'd put on them from contracting his muscles. When he reached the couch, Bakura clung to it like a man clings to driftwood when lost at sea. He didn't remember falling asleep, and he didn't hear Marik leave that morning.

When Bakura woke and checked the apartment for Marik, he instead found a note on the table reminding Bakura to eat and move around as much as possible throughout the day. Beneath the note lay a stack of yen. A plate of fava beans and onions also sat on the table. Bakura didn't care for the dish – it was neither meat nor a sweet – but he devoured it nonetheless. He washed the plate and went to the bathroom to shower.

As Bakura dressed, he stared at Marik's bed. An odd urge to lie on Marik's side and smell Marik's pillow consumed Bakura. He was sure he'd catch the scent of Marik's shampoo locked within the silk pillowcase. Bakura hurried out of the room, avoiding the compulsion.

At the market, Bakura bought steak; t-bones, sirloins, rib eyes, and rump steaks, anything he could get his hands on. He also bought three cartons of orange juice, two cartons of chocolate milk, peaches, strawberries, oranges, bananas, plums, and any green vegetable he saw – although he snickered when he saw the heads of romaine. He bought some anyway, considering how his first two nights alive had gone, he'd probably need the lettuce.

Marik walked in on Bakura in the middle of a steak feast.

"Do you feel better?" Marik asked.

Bakura shrugged, pointing at the grill-pan on the stove. "I saved you a fillet."

Marik nodded and put the small cut of meat on a plate. He peeked in the fridge, pulling out the lettuce, spinach, and endive Bakura bought. "At least you bought stuff for a salad."

Bakura laughed as Marik cut the lettuce.

"What's so funny?" Marik raised an eyebrow.

Bakura shook his head, filling his mouth with a too-large section of sirloin so he didn't have to answer Marik's question. Once finished, Marik set a bowl in front of Bakura of greens lightly dressed with vinegar and olive oil. Bakura stabbed the mix with his fork and ate it with the same zeal he'd given his steaks.

"Were you cold today?"

Bakura shrugged again. He'd had moments, but nothing lasting.

"Damn, Bakura, try to let me get a word in edge-wise."

"Eating," Bakura muttered into an almost empty bowl of greens.

Marik shook his head. "Oh, I saw Ryou on my lunch break today. He said he'd swing by and visit you in a few days."

Bakura looked up from his bowl. "Why?"

"To visit. Why else?"

"But . . . why?"

Ryou should hate him. Bakura couldn't imagine his former host feeling any other way.

"You really are a gods-forsaken moron." Marik shook his head.

"You have the gods-forsaken part right." Bakura left his empty bowl and plate on the table while he stood up and rummaged in the fridge for one of the cartons of chocolate milk. He drank for a long time, sighing when he finally broke away for air. "I don't really even like chocolate. I'd rather have dates or figs, but I couldn't find any."

They washed the dishes together, Marik washing and Bakura drying. He had no desire to be helpful, but there was only so much to do in Marik's apartment and the activity filled a space of time. When they finished, Marik went to the living room to watch TV.

Bakura sat next to him, not knowing what else to do. They watched a movie, then the news, Bakura watched Marik's face more than the t.v. screen. He noticed, as the night dragged on, that Marik started yawning. Bakura knew Marik would want to go to sleep, and that he wouldn't be in the mood to listen to Bakura demanding sex.

Bakura thought about trying to sleep on the couch alone, staring at the endless patterns of light and dark rectangles that sprayed out on the ceiling when it was dark and quiet in the living room. His fingers started toying with the hem of his shirt. "We should play a card game."

"Hmm?" Marik half-glanced at Bakura. "I would, but it's getting late. We can tomorrow, if you want."

What Bakura wanted was any excuse for Marik to stay on the couch instead of going to bed – even for just a few moments longer. Before he could think of plan, Bakura found himself pushing the coffee table away from the sofa. He sank to the floor, knees padded by the plush carpet. Bakura splayed his bone-white fingers along the top of Marik's lap, the white of Bakura's skin contrasting with the black of Marik's pants.

"Bakura? What are you doing?"

Bakura licked his lips. He'd been acting on instinct more than thought, but as his mind caught up with his body and realized what he wanted to do, Bakura found himself eager to continue. His fingers slid higher up Marik's pants, thumbs hitching around the belt loops and tugging them to pull Marik a centimeter closer.

Bakura lowered his face close to the V where Marik's legs merged with his body. "Just thought I'd get you off before you turned in for the night."

He kissed between Marik's legs, allowing his mouth to press against the fabric of Marik's pants. Marik tossed his head back, muttering something Bakura couldn't hear.

"What was that?" Bakura intentionally spoke close to Marik's body, allowing the vibrations of his voice to tease Marik.

Marik's erection swelled behind the fabric of his slacks. Bakura kissed the bulge, encouraging it.

"I said . . ." Marik couldn't finish the sentence. His fingers fumbled for his zipper.

Bakura didn't allow Marik to get past the top button. Before Marik could un-zip, Bakura grabbed Marik's right hand and sucked on Marik's pointer and mid fingers. Marik looked down at Bakura, violet eyes reflecting the shifting colors from the television, lips parted. Bakura looked up to meet Marik's gaze, his tongue flicking against the pads of Marik's fingers as their eyes met.

A single, nervous laugh slipped from Marik's mouth. "What's gotten into you?"

Bakura shrugged, letting go of Marik's fingers in order to pull the zipper of Marik's pants down. "Maybe it was all that lettuce you fed me."

"What?" Marik asked, but the hazy glaze in his eyes suggested that Marik really didn't care what answer Bakura gave.

Bakura clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "All that time forced to study Ancient Egypt, and you never learned any of the fun stuff."

"What?"

Bakura grinned, pulling Marik's erection away from his pants and sucking until Marik forgot his question. Bakura tugged at the hem of Marik's pants, and Marik lifted his hips. They both pulled the fabric away, allowing it to crumple on the carpet beside Bakura.

Bakura didn't hesitate. He bobbed his head, allowing Marik's shaft to slide into his mouth until he felt the tip jab at the back of his throat each time he dipped downward. His right hand held Marik's base while his left brushed against Marik's lower belly.

"Damn Bakura."

Hearing Marik's voice, breathy and faint with pleasure tied Bakura's lower belly into knots. His left hand slid down to Marik's thigh, feeling the firm, taunt muscle beneath Marik's skin, but after a moment, Bakura couldn't resist lowering his left hand down to his own erection. Bakura teased himself with thumb and pointer finger. Bakura shivered, and moved his head faster.

Marik's length swelled, so plump that Bakura had trouble keeping more than a few centimeters in his mouth. A wayward hand slipped into Bakura's hair, tugging, and encouraging Bakura to go deeper. The force of Marik's hand tugging Bakura's hair made the former spirit giddy. He strained to fit another two centimeters into his mouth, relaxing his throat to accommodate the extra length.

Marik called out. His hips jerked up, and Bakura held his breath in order to swallow. Bakura's lips burned, his jaw ached, and every nerve in his body seemed to throb with satisfaction. The sleepy, unfocused look in Marik's eyes, the way his shoulders slumped and his hips sank deep into the couch cushions told Bakura that he'd done a damn good job.

"Guess you're ready for bed now," Bakura whispered into Marik's knee, giving it a quick kiss.

Marik hummed an _mmmm_ of approval, but then he sat up straight. "Not just yet."

Bakura raised an eyebrow. Marik smiled, warm and bright as early morning sunlight.

Marik pulled Bakura up on the sofa. Bakura sat side-saddle in Marik's lap, long, white legs slung across the length of the couch. He tilted Bakura back at a slight angle, sucking on Bakura's throat and wrapping his fingers around Bakura's need.

A cry shuddered from Bakura's parted lips. His eyes fluttered shut and he focused on Marik's warm hand and warmer mouth. The pleasure pooled into Bakura's center, tighter and tighter, like the universe preparing to be born, and then it couldn't condense anymore. Bakura felt everything explode. Everything shot outward, stars, planets, entire solar systems and galaxies, a universe created inside him, and then he clung to Marik like he'd clung to the sofa the night before – a survivor clutching driftwood.

He stayed that way as long as he dared, until the enthrallment of post-orgasm could no longer justify the way he held Marik. He stood.

"I need to clean up," he muttered, an excuse to force himself away from Marik.

"Yeah, me too." Marik sighed before rising to his feet.

Bakura slept well that night, warm and sated, but he sighed as he slept, dreaming and yearning to be held.


	3. Chapter 3

*****fyi, I'm almost done writing chapter 5 for this fic and I'm about 1/3 done with chapter 26 for the zombie fic. Also, supersteffy's Valentine fic is up on her page now. Nothing says St. Patrick's Day like ygotas-style "non-canon day" Thiefshipping, so go read it and show her some review love (seriously, her stories deserve more reviews than they get. )*****

* * *

In Egypt, revenge filled his hours. He robbed, and honed his skills, and slept, and dreamt of the day he'd charge against the Pharaoh and avenge his family. The hate thrilled Bakura, always calling to him and sustaining him. 8:45 in the morning without vengeance, or hate, or even a tomb to rob for shits and giggles was a quiet, lonely, boring time. Marik left for work at 8:00 a.m., didn't come back until 2:00p.m., and that left Bakura six hours with no one but himself for company.

He didn't want to think about himself.

He'd spent the last three-thousand years with a demon whispering hatred and madness into his every thought, then he had Ryou's thoughts trying to unsay everything Zorc ever whispered. Bakura stood in the kitchen, near a small window. Light struck his face, orange juice chilled his tongue, and Bakura didn't know what to think. No vengeance, no hatred, no dark god, what did people think about in the morning when they weren't on a quest for murder and destruction?

Not Marik. Marik made his thoughts solid as tapioca pudding. Not his body. Bakura still felt weak and fragile in the tiny white shell, and he hated it, and when he thought about it, he felt like he'd float away and only thoughts of Marik could bring him back to a stable place.

Bakura swallowed the last gulp of orange juice. He still had money, and he decided he needed more juice. At least there was orange juice to think about. Bakura changed, looking in the mirror and frowning at what looked back at him. Then, too many thoughts swarmed in his mind. He thought of the kitchen, and he ran there; he thought of the knife wrack, and he pulled a blade from the wooden block on the counter; he thought of the mirror again, and he sprinted back to it. Bakura held the knife tip below his eye, thinking that if he had his scar back, the long slash on his cheek, then maybe he'd feel a little more like himself again. He stood there, arm tight, ready to drag the blade against his flesh, but his hand trembled, and then knife fell from his hand. The chef knife clattered in the sink and see-sawed from one side to the other until it lay still in the center.

Bakura dropped to his knees, punching the tiled floor with a clenched, white fist. His hits felt useless; his arms didn't have the strength he wanted to put behind each blow. He couldn't give himself the scar. Marik wouldn't understand why he'd scar himself – Marik with enough scars for the both of them, Marik who liked staring at Bakura's new, unadorned skin. Besides, scars shouldn't be given – they should be earned through life, through adventure. The life Bakura had in Egypt was over, and he hadn't earned a damn thing in his new life.

After a final punch to the floor, Bakura stood up and replaced the knife in the kitchen. Orange juice. He needed to buy orange juice. Outside, the sun stung his eyes. He blinked until the daylight no longer hurt his vision and walked towards the store.

On his way, he saw a bookstore and decided to go inside. He bought the first volume of three different graphic novels to see if any were worth collecting. He also bought half a dozen Hellboy, Deadpool, and Spawn comics. He hoped that reading something might give his mind a productive direction in which to wander. He also saw a music store, and spent an hour listening to several cd's before giving up and deciding he'd find music online instead.

Even then he passed the market in order to walk around the block a few times, manga and comics swinging in the bag hooked around his slender, pale wrist. Bakura observed the city, not as a chess board in his attempt to capture the white king, but as a city.

Marik said moving would help his soul settle into his body, but it made him dizzy. He preferred sex. On his final run around the block, he bought orange juice, pocky, and more steak before heading back to the apartment.

Bakura poured through the comics while his steaks cooked. After he ate and cleaned up, he found he still had three hours to kill before Marik came home. He paced around the apartment, and each time he'd end up back in the bedroom. Bakura sighed and sat down on Marik's half of the bed, running his hand along the comforter. In a fit, he stripped the sheets off of the bed and threw them in the wash. He returned and covered the mattress with new sheets from the linen closet, trying to remember how Ryou did it back when Bakura was only a Ring Spirit. He wasn't being _nice_. He simply wanted to be fucked on clean sheets. Later, when he vacuumed, he insisted to himself that he just wanted to see how the damn contraption worked.

The chores kept him warm, but his body ached, new muscles screaming. Again, he preferred sex; it didn't make him hurt or feel thirsty. Bakura drank a large glass of water and put the linen in the dryer before crashing onto the couch. He swaddled his blanket around his sore body and tried to focus on the issue of _Vampire Hunter D_ he'd purchased.

He fell asleep before he reached the third page, the book dropping to the carpet as Bakura sank deep into the cushions.

In his dream – even asleep, Bakura knew it was a dream because it was too beautiful to be real – he saw Marik kneeling in the grass. The sun sat low on the horizon behind Marik, turning his golden hair into a flaming halo. He gestured for Bakura to sit, and Bakura obeyed without verbal response. They both wore kimonos. White silk draped over Marik's brown skin. Embroidered, lavender _ume_ blossoms were scattered across the white silk, like the flowers that often bloomed at the end of winter when the snow still lingered on the ground. Bakura himself wore a red kimono.

Marik poured a cup of sake and offered it to Bakura. He lifted the cup to his lips, stopping just before he could taste the rice-wine. Marik had a sad look in his eyes, although he didn't speak. Bakura blinked at his cup for a moment and then set it down, picking up the bottle and pouring a glass for Marik so they could drink together. Marik smiled then, and they each sipped from their cups.

The wine left Bakura's head light and airy, but he didn't feel like he'd float away. In fact, he felt anchored and calm. He laughed, and he smelled the sunlight in his own hair as the wind blew the white streamers into his face. Marik reached forward to brush the strands behind Bakura's ears. Bakura stared at Marik's lips, their faces centimeters apart.

Bakura reached out, slipping his fingers into Marik's soft hair, and pulling the other male in for a kiss. As soon as their lips touched Bakura's physical body flinched, and he had the vague notion that the dream was too beautiful to be real, but the kiss was too beautiful not to be real.

His eyes fluttered open, waking to pressure and movement against his mouth. Marik hovered over him, one knee propped against the cushions for balance as he bent forward. Bakura ran his tongue over Marik's bottom lip, as if that somehow proved the moment was real and not another dream. Marik sighed into Bakura's mouth and pulled on Bakura's top lip for a moment before breaking the kiss.

"You kissed me," he said it with a slight defensive tone. "I was just checking on you and you pulled my face towards you."

"I was dreaming," Bakura muttered, wanting Marik's mouth back on his own.

"About me?"

Bakura paused a moment, feeling the weight of the baited question. "You were there."

"Kissing you?"

"We were drinking sake."

Marik blinked. "Would you like to?"

Bakura felt his cheeks heat up. "Kiss?"

A wicked expression lit up Marik's face. He traced his fingers down Bakura's burning cheek before pressing his mouth against Bakura's lips. They stayed locked against each other for a long, head-spinning moment, tongues swirling together, before Marik pulled away. "No, drink sake."

"Oh." Bakura didn't know what else to say. He felt rather dumb, but he wanted Marik's mouth badly, so he leaned forward again for another kiss without giving his mistake another thought.

Marik made a surprised noise when Bakura nipped at Marik's bottom lip. He'd kept the bite gentle, but the burning color of Marik's eyes encouraged Bakura to bite a second time and with a little more force. He bit Marik's bottom lip one last time, pulling back and then tracing Marik's mouth with his tongue.

Marik scooped Bakura into his arms and started carrying him down the hall. It wasn't until Bakura felt the familiar comfort of Marik's mattress that he pulled away and snorted. "You really need to stop carrying me around like an old rag-doll."

"Then brush your hair so you don't look like one," Marik snapped, shoving his tongue hard into Bakura's mouth, but if the act was meant to annoy Bakura, it failed in its goal.

Instead, Bakura wrapped his legs around Marik's waist and slipped his hand beneath Marik's shirt in order to smooth his palms against Marik's ribs and stomach. Marik dropped down to Bakura's throat.

"Mmmm, baby!" Bakura cried out as Marik sucked at his throat. He hiked his hips against Marik's body, his hands grabbing rather than caressing Marik's side.

"We can do it Friday," Marik said.

Bakura growled. "Marik, I'm half asleep. Be specific."

Marik chuckled as he stripped Bakura's shirt away. "You're not acting half asleep. I meant drink."

"Sure," Bakura murmured, tugging Marik's top as high as it would go in order to lick along Marik's abdominal muscles.

Marik shuddered and sighed as Bakura's tongue worked. He turned back the blanket so they could slip beneath it, and an odd expression contorted Marik's features. "Bakura . . . did you change the sheets?"

"Always be prepared, Ishtar. It's my bare ass that gets fucked on these sheets."

"Yeah, but still . . ." Marik smoothed his hand over the fresh bedding. "Thanks. I was going to do it before bed, but now I can relax instead."

Some odd, pleasant feeling tingled across Bakura's skin at the thought of Marik spending the night with him instead of doing chores. Bakura looked away so Marik couldn't read his expression. "Same goes with the carpet."

"The carpet?"

"Well, it wasn't your knees on the carpet last night – it was mine, so I figured I should vacuum."

Marik exhaled, nuzzling Bakura's exposed shoulder. "Does that mean I can expect more blow jobs on the couch?"

"If there's nothing good on TV."

"I'm starting to like this arrangement."

"I'm not your damn maid or anything." Bakura growled, looking at Marik. "I only do things when it suits me."

Marik tugged Bakura's pants down. "But if what suits you also benefits me, then so much the better, no? Isn't that how our partnership has always worked?"

Bakura opted out of answering in lieu of grabbing Marik and kissing him. He felt some of the tension in his sore muscles ease as the last of their clothes slipped off and Marik's bare, warm body rested on top of Bakura. He reached between them, grabbing their bare erections and moaning as their sensitive tips glided along the length of their shafts.

"This feels—"

"Incredible!" Bakura finished Marik's sentence.

"Ha!" Marik's voice came out as a breathy gasp. "I was going to say intimate."

It was true. They lay together naked, their breath and sweat mixing as their members slid together. It was intimate, and therefore incredible. "Marik."

"What?" Marik hissed the question, a soft teasing whisper in Bakura's ear.

"Take me. I want you."

"You're such a slut."

Bakura squeezed Marik's erection, giving his shaft a slow tug upward. "For your cock? How can I not be?" He tilted his face up, then, and gave Marik another soft bite on his bottom lip.

Marik swallowed a sigh, crawling on hands and knees across the mattress in order to reach the lube. "I swear, there's more power in your tongue that there ever was in a Shadow Game."

From Bakura's position on the mattress, he had a perfect view of Marik's cumin-colored ass. Bakura rolled off his back and onto his knees, smirking. "You think? Shall we test that claim?"

Without another word, Bakura grabbed Marik's ass, spreading his cheeks a touch apart. Before Marik could protest, Bakura ran his tongue up the length of Marik's crack.

"Bakura!" Marik near squeaked the name instead of shouting it. "W-what are you . . ."

Bakura purred against Marik's entrance, dabbing his tongue against the soft, hot, delicate skin and enjoying the way his machinations made Marik squirm and pant. Bakura pulled back, Marik's mutilated back stretched before him like the desert at sunrise. "I'm showing you precisely how magical my tongue can be."

He lowered his head again, circling his tongue and then poking it straight into Marik's body. Marik clenched his fists, one pulling at the fresh sheets and the other squeezing the bottle of lubricate. Marik's taut thighs, balled fists, and ecstatic moans drove Bakura wild. His licks grew broad and he flattened his tongue against Marik's flesh. He alternated between slow licks and quick circles.

Marik's panting grew high-pitched. "Bakura . . . Bakura."

Each time Marik groaned Bakura's name, Bakura would reward Marik with a stab of his tongue into Marik's asshole.

"Oh Bakura!" Marik arched his back, thrusting his ass in order for Bakura's tongue to press deeper. "Please . . . please . . . let me fuck you. Please, I can't take it anymore."

"Who's the slut now?"

"Bakura, please."

Bakura's cock twitched as Marik begged. He gave Marik one last, languid lick, and then spread himself back on the bed, wiping the saliva off of his chin. "Whatever you want, baby. Fuck me."

Marik drowned his erection in lube, ramming two fingers into Bakura's body and scissoring for a brief moment before moving his hand in order to slam hard into Bakura's body. He went at Bakura like a jackhammer.

Bakura held his breath. Marik felt spectacular inside of him, but the way Marik moved would make them finish far sooner than Bakura wanted to finish. He grabbed Marik's ass with both hands, allowing Marik to thrust deep one last time, but then preventing Marik from pulling out. Bakura squeezed his muscles around Marik thick shaft.

"Slow down, let's draw this out a bit."

Marik choked on a bell-sweet sigh, but then he turned his face away from Bakura. "Fucking's suppose to be hard, quick, and fast."

Bakura knew that; however, he didn't care. He guided Marik's hips back in a slow glide, and then pulled Marik closer. "We don't have to follow the rules."

"It's not a rule. It's a definition."

Another glide out, another glide in, Bakura licked Marik's chest before retorting. "Only because some asshole wrote it down that way. If my tongue has all the power you say, it should be able to redefine a mere word."

Marik's body shuddered and then relaxed, as if giving into Bakura's argument. The blonde Egyptian lowered himself down to his forearms and submitted himself to having Bakura set the pace of their lovemaking. He kept their movements slow and gentle until his balls ached for want of release. Only then did he speed up to a medium gait. With his new body only days old, Bakura knew he could make himself cum without being stroked, just as he had the last time he was in Marik's bed, so he kept his white hands on Marik's tanned ass and hiked his hips up so that his shaft rubbed against Marik's body. He quivered inside, panting hard and moving a touch faster.

The other night embarrassed him, cumming without meaning to, lost in the sensations Marik lavished on him, but with his hands controlling Marik's speed, and his hips grinding against Marik's belly, Bakura had no issues turning the trick to his advantage. His eyes rolled back, a moan rolled from his throat, and heat splattered onto his ivory stomach. Bakura felt himself sinking into the comfort of post orgasm, but he forced his hands to keep moving as if Marik couldn't thrust without the encouragement of his fingers.

Marik grabbed Bakura's shoulders, his pants high and sweet, He muttered three syllables that should have been Bakura's name, but weren't formed enough to be anything more comprehensible than blissful noise. The second Marik stopped, he jerked away and crashed his face into his own pillow.

Bakura grinned. He scooted closer to Marik's back, pressing his forehead into the carved wings and wrapping his arm over Marik's side. He didn't say anything. He knew why Marik hid in his pillow. Marik felt the way Bakura had the other night. The memory of Marik begging sent a strong, primal shiver straight through Bakura's guts. He sighed at the thought, but he knew Marik was most-likely raving at himself for letting all those _pleases_ slip past his lips.

"Good idea," Bakura murmured, to show Marik that he wasn't going to boast. "I want to finish the nap I was taking before you got home."

He kissed Marik's shoulder blades, remembering how he'd enjoyed it when Marik did the same for him the other night. Then he pressed his forehead back into Marik's wings and fell asleep. Bakura woke an hour later, feral with hunger. He crawled around for his pants, and then stumbled for the kitchen. He ate an entire quart of strawberries while two t-bone steaks broiled in the oven. On the stove he sauteed asparagus and a filet of salmon, knowing Marik would bitch at him when he smelled the steaks grilling.

He wasn't wrong. Marik appeared just as Bakura set everything on the table. He scowled. Bakura had to turn away when he found himself wanting to kiss the wrinkles creasing Marik's brow.

"Bakura, I can't eat red meat every night. I don't really like it."

Bakura snorted. "Who said I was sharing my steaks with you?" He gestured to Marik's plate. "Eat fish like a fucking peasant for all I care. The steaks are mine."

Marik's eyes trailed to the salmon. He blinked as he sat down, as if expecting the dish to disappear. His lavender eyes looked up at Bakura. "Thank you."

Bakura filled his mouth with asparagus and dripping-rare steak to avoid answering. He shrugged, one hand wrapped around his fork, the other wrapped around a fresh carton of orange juice. After his steaks, Bakura sucked the last flavor off of the bones. Marik started laughing.

"Fuck you," Bakura muttered, not stopping although he felt stupid doing it.

"I always wanted a puppy."

"Fuck you, Marik."

Bakura's swearing only made Marik laugh a little harder. "Want to play cards?"

Bakura paused, wanting to suck the blood off of his fingers, but not wanting to hear Marik laugh about it. In the end, Bakura decided to go with it, savoring the last taste of his meal off of his own skin. Marik did laugh, but he wandered off to go find his cards.

Marik washed the dishes while Bakura searched through extra cards in order to scrape together a reasonable deck. "Are all these cards _real_?" Bakura gave Marik a side glance, still focused on his deck.

Marik smirked, drying his hands on a kitchen towel and sitting across from Bakura. "Yes, actually. I always kept the originals and made the Ghouls use the counterfeits."

They spent a good deal of the night playing, Marik winning two games, and Bakura barely managing to win the last one. The games went slowly because they bantered more than they played, but Bakura found himself enjoying the games. It was a refreshing change, to lose a game without being banished to the Shadows, to play against someone that didn't want you dead. Bakura wasn't sure how he'd managed to even win the last game. He kept staring at Marik over his cards the entire time.

Afterward they watched a movie, and then Marik watched the news. He lingered afterward, tracing the seam of his pants as commercials droned on the television. "I guess . . . I should go to sleep."

"Well, you're the one who has to actually get up and go to work in the morning."

"Yeah . . ." Marik's eyes darted up to Bakura and then back to his clothing.

"Marik, are you okay?" Bakura asked before he could censor himself.

"Yeah," he answered, but his tone was flat. "Too lazy to get up, I guess."

At that moment Marik looked up at Bakura, leaning in a little closer. Bakura swallowed, holding his breath and waiting to see what Marik would do. Deep down, Bakura wished Marik would scoop him up and carry him back to the bedroom – not for sex, but to go to sleep. The couch wasn't comfortable; Marik's arms were.

Marik leaned a touch closer. Bakura half closed his eyes, hoping for at least a slow, lingering kiss goodnight. Instead of going for Bakura's mouth, Marik leaned next to his ear. "Goodnight, asshole."

Close enough.

Bakura smiled. "Night, bitch."


	4. Chapter 4

*****There's no lemon in this chapter. I have failed as a pwp writer (hahaha)*****

* * *

The next morning, Bakura walked again. He figured three times around the large city block worked out to be close to five kilometers. Bakura's calves felt like tight knots of fire and ripping muscle, his breath sounded raspy and thin in his ears, and sweat made the black t-shirt he wore cling to his chest, but he forced himself to take step after step until he found himself panting in front of Marik's door with his hands resting on his knees.

He felt weak. He hated weak. Burning coals and hammer strikes were the only way to fold weak ore into a hard steel, so he'd walk until he could run, and then run until he could cartwheel. He'd hammer his flesh into something more than a doll of frail bones and white skin.

Outside Marik's apartment he felt weak, but driven. Each lap served as a goal, something to focus on, and Bakura was realizing that his mind needed such a focal point to function properly.

Inside Marik's he also felt weak, but there was nothing to _do_. He paced the living room, wandering in an angry haze from room to room with his bangs framing his vision and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

He found himself in the kitchen. The noon light stabbing through the window transformed the room into a golden square. The light striking the tiled floor caught every imperfection. Three crumbs, a streak, and several long, loose, white hairs. Bakura scowled at the hair. He didn't see any golden ones, and it infuriated him to no end that he shed like a stray cat, but Marik seemed immured to the flaw. _Stupid body_!

He remembered seeing a broom in the closet than housed the vacuum. Bakura snatched it and a dustpan and busied himself sweeping both the kitchen, and bathroom floors. He couldn't find a mop, so he used a kitchen towel to hand mop the floor. His anger grew as he worked. It nestled on top of him like an old, ugly, but oh-so-comfortable sweater he couldn't ever throw away. He hated the current condition of his physical and emotional state, and that manifested into unreasonable hatred for any imperfection in his physical surroundings.

He cleaned the windows next, then the bathroom mirror, which led to scrubbing the entire bathroom from top to bottom, until his hands felt raw and his head spun from the smell of the cleaners he found beneath the sink. He didn't stop. Stopping was never in Bakura's nature, and he scrubbed the bathtub as if he could scrub the self-loathing out of his system, or at least the frailty causing his self-loathing.

The bathroom gleamed. Bakura jumped up to storm the apartment and find what else he could attack with a bucket and scrub brush. As he entered the hallway, however, Bakura felt the world spin. He swayed, trying to catch himself against the wall, but falling onto his ass despite his efforts.

"Stop," he muttered, as if the spinning would obey his verbal command. But it didn't stop. Bakura lay sprawled on top of the hallway carpet, too dizzy to even shift in a more comfortable position. His attempts at rational thought failed, and he must have blacked out because he closed his eyes for half a second, and the next half of the second produced Marik above him – screaming.

"Shhhh," Bakura hissed, wanting Marik's angry words to stop buzzing in his ears. He couldn't sleep with the noise.

"I will not _shhhh_ you asshole! Stay awake!"

"I'm fine."

"You passed out in a hallway! That's not fine!"

Bakura didn't have an answer for the last statement. His brown eyes darted around.

"Are you cold?" Marik asked, touching Bakura's face with his warm, comforting hands.

"I don't think so?"

"Gods, what's that supposed to mean? Are you or are you not cold?"

"I . . . I'm not shivering?"

Marik exhaled, closing his eyes frustration. "How about hungry? When's the last time you ate?"

Damn Marik and his damn questions. Why couldn't he just lay down in the hallway beside him and let him sleep? Bakura took a laborious inhale. "Yesterday?"

"Yesterday! Why haven't you eaten today?"

"I was busy."

"Doing what?" Marik's voice cracked; he verged on hysterics.

_Not scrubbing the bathtub._

"Exercising." It sounded less lame than cleaning, and amounted to the same goal – him trying to get his muscles to be something more than useless.

Marik scooped Bakura into his arms again, and Bakura didn't have the energy to protest. Marik set Bakura down beside the refrigerator and on the clean floor, fortunately not noticing how clean the tiles were. He reached into the fridge, pulling a carton of orange juice out and pressing it to Bakura's lips. Most of the bright-colored liquid ended up staining Bakura's chin rather than getting into his mouth.

"Marik . . . stop . . ."

"Your blood sugar is probably low."

"It's hard to swallow. I just need to sleep."

"No!"

Bakura tried to push Marik away, but in his current state he only managed to press his hands against Marik's chest. "I'm not so weak that skipping breakfast will kill me!"

"Quit being stubborn! Don't you get it? It's magic, not a gods-created-miracle. Your body is new. You need to take it easy for a little while."

"This stupid body you made is useless! It's weak! I hate it!"

Marik's eyes clouded in anger, his jaw strained as he spoke. "Well excuse me. I only brought you back from the dead, heaven forbid I don't also keep your stupid, fucking vanity in mind while I _risked my life_ casting the spell."

"I never asked you to!" Bakura shouted.

_Although you saved me from darkness and madness._

"No, I did it because I _wanted_ to!" Marik shouted back in Bakura's face.

Bakura sucked in a breath, wanting to shout a rebuttal, but everything seemed to tilt right and Bakura found himself leaning against Marik instead of screaming at him.

Marik lifted Bakura's chin up to force more orange juice on him. The carton was bulky, making it difficult to drink. Bakura coughed and sputtered, pushing the carton away from his mouth again. "You're drowning me."

"Sweet, fucking shit, Bakura." Marik stood up, pouring juice in a glass and then helping Bakura drink.

He managed to swallow most of the liquid that time, and he sat back and waited for the spinning to slow. Marik stayed knelt on the tile beside Bakura. The former spirit turned away. He felt the spilled orange juice drying in a sticky mess on his chin and throat, so he used his shirt to wipe the orange from his skin so he didn't look like a fool.

"Do you feel any better?" Marik asked.

"I feel like I'm on a tilt-a-whirl."

"A what?"

Bakura glanced back at Marik with a scowl. "You're joking, right? Do you really not know what that is?"

The smoky, lavender anger returned to Marik's eyes. "I did live underground for half my life."

"And I was trapped in the Ring. I still managed to learn what a carnival was."

Marik made a disgusted noise in his throat, his hands digging into fists. "Sounds stupid."

"Well I wasn't suggesting we go on a date," Bakura snapped. "I was explaining . . ." Bakura stopped. He pressed his hand against his head. "Can we not have this argument when I'm on the floor and my head is spinning?"

He struggled to get to his feet, using the counter to hold himself upright.

"What are you doing?" Marik grabbed Bakura beneath his arms and helped him upright.

"Going back to the couch. The floor is hard and cold."

"Here, I'll carry you to my bed." Marik tried to scoop Bakura up bridal style once again, but Bakura grabbed Marik's hands to stop him.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking," he hissed.

"Didn't I already tell you to stop being so stubborn." Marik sighed. "At least lean on my shoulder?"

Bakura saw the way his hands shook against the counter. He growled low in his throat before slinging an arm around Marik's neck and shoulders and permitted himself to be half, instead of fully, carried down the hallway. On the bed, Marik pulled off Bakura's t-shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't get so excited, Bakura. Your clothes are covered in orange juice."

Bakura snorted, removing his own pants before Marik tried to help him with that as well. Bakura leaned back against the pillows, and closed his eyes, but Marik shook his shoulders.

"What?" Bakura glared at his _partner_.

"Don't fall asleep. I'm going to go make dinner, but I need you to stay awake."

Bakura snorted. "Whatever. Just go."

"I mean it, Bakura. Stay awake."

"Yes, _mother_."

Marik threw up his hands and let them hit his sides. "I give up. Just try to stay alive until dinner. I hate eating leftovers and I'm cooking for the both of us."

Marik left and Bakura stared down at his boxer-clad body, glaring at what he saw. The white skin pulled against his bones. He looked like a skeleton, like bones stripped by scavengers and bleached in the sun. Bakura hid himself with Marik's blanket, realizing as he lay down that he could smell a faint suggestion of Marik's cologne on the pillow cases. He closed his eyes for half a second, enjoying the smell, and the next second Marik was yelling at him again.

"Dammit, Bakura! One thing. One little thing. Don't fall asleep."

Groggy, Bakura grabbed Marik's hand and pressed it again his chest. "Feel that? I'm alive. Stop bitching."

"It's like you're completely oblivious to how much danger you're still in."

Bakura stared at Marik, his eyes burned from keeping them open. "It's not like I fell asleep to piss you off. I'm tired."

"I'm not pissed, I . . ." Marik cut off his own sentence and sighed. "Can you eat?"

Bakura nodded.

"Stay here." Marik disappeared and returned with two plates.

Both dishes had rice smothered in chickpea curry. Bakura's plate had a roundhouse steak on the side of the curry. He grinned at the food, his stomach growling at the sight of it. They ate in silence. When finished, Bakura handed his plate to Marik. "Thanks."

Marik took the plate and stacked it on top of his own. "Still tired?"

Bakura nodded his head.

"Give me a minute." Marik left again. Bakura heard water running in the kitchen as Marik washed their dinner dishes.

When he returned the the bed, he sat down, scooped Bakura into his arms, and leaned back against the headboard. "Okay, you can sleep."

"Uh . . . like this?" Bakura lay in Marik's arms and on his chest.

"It's the easiest way to monitor your heartbeat and breathing while you sleep."

"Marik," Bakura said, as calmly as he could. "Stop worrying. I'm not dying."

"Bakura, do you know anything about the spell that brought you back?"

"Not really."

"Then shut the fuck up and go to sleep."

Bakura had no intention of arguing further. He rather enjoyed using Marik as a pillow. Bakura lay on his stomach, and he wrapped his arms around Marik's waist.

"Bakura? What are you—"

"I have no where else to put my arms." Bakura smirked at his excuse, nuzzling into Marik's stomach. "You're the one that insisted I sleep like this, so put up with me getting comfortable."

Marik grunted and Bakura nuzzled his belly a second time. He could feel the ridges of damaged tissue on Marik's back, and Bakura found himself working his fingers up and down the small of Marik's back. The last thing he heard before dropping back into a hard sleep, was the content noise Marik made as Bakura's fingers danced across his back.

* * *

The next morning Bakura woke to sunlight. He felt disoriented, but more than that, he felt an unsettling sense of peace and comfort. The experience was such a complete opposite to his time spent in the Ring, that Bakura physically panicked, scrambling away from the arms holding him.

"Bakura," Marik whispered when Bakura removed himself.

Bakura blinked at Marik, still in his clothes from the day before, and still in the same position from the day before. Bakura realized that Marik had sacrificed his evening and night to watch Bakura instead. The thought made Bakura want to lean forward and kiss Marik, but his fight or flight reflex won out, and Bakura snuck out of bed. He showered and dressed and decided to make breakfast so Marik didn't scold him to eat.

Marik stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his neck. He snorted at their breakfast. "Good, I was going to scream at you if you skipped meals again today."

Bakura set a plate of toast and eggs in front of Marik, steak and eggs awaited on Bakura's plate. "I figured I better. If I pass out again you'll force me to spend another night cuddling instead of getting laid."

"Yes." Marik frowned at his plate. "That's your punishment, having to lay beside me."

Bakura didn't like the look on Marik's face. He sat down, leaning over his plate a bit to ensure Marik heard him. "We're still drinking tonight, right?"

Marik looked up, his expression thoughtful. "I'm not sure . . ."

"I'm fine."

"If I bring home alcohol, do you promise to take it easy while I'm at work?"

"Anything for alcohol," Bakura said, he meant it as a joke, but Marik didn't laugh.

Bakura wanted to do something to make Marik seem less melancholy, and he felt a powerful need to kiss Marik before he walked out the door. As Marik prepared to leave, Bakura reached out. "Wait, Marik."

Marik pivoted, turning back to look at Bakura with a question mark for an expression.

"Uh . . . you have fuzz in your hair," Bakura lied, using the excuse to run his fingers through the beautiful gold framing Marik's face.

"Did you get it?"

"Yeah," Bakura muttered.

A slight smile did find its way on Marik's face. "Thanks. See you this afternoon."

After Marik left, Bakura sat on the couch, flipping through channel after channel, going back to the beginning and starting over again in a never-ending circle of uninteresting shows. He wanted to walk, perhaps go back to the bookstore for more graphic novels, but he didn't want to risk blacking out again. Not that he really cared, but he didn't want to deal with Marik's reaction, so he stayed on the couch like an obedient dog, and flipped through channels.

A knock on the door alleviated Bakura's boredom. He checked the peep-hole, knowing that Marik still kept in touch with Bakura's old enemies and not wanting to have to deal with the morons. He saw a white, mirror image of himself through the peep hole and opened the door.

"You're hair looks like shit," Bakura said.

Ryou smiled at him, inviting himself into Marik's apartment. "You shouldn't talk. You look a bit like road kill."

Bakura scowled at Ryou's rebuttal.

Ryou leaned closer, examining Bakura's face. "You have anemia. I can tell by the circles under your eyes, and from what Marik says you're also hypoglycemic."

Bakura crossed his arms over his chest and snorted. "So? Who cares? I wouldn't be so messed up if you weren't such a weakling. I should have picked a stronger host."

Ryou closed his eyes and sighed, opening his eyes again and setting his mouth into a stubborn line for a moment before speaking. "Okay, _Bakura_. You and I need to have a little adult conversation, and I need you to be _reasonable_ during this talk, yeah? Let's sit down."

Bakura growled, choosing the kitchen because he refused to sit next to Ryou on the couch. "Go ahead and get this lecture over with."

"It's not a lecture. It's a talk. Look, after you left, I was sick all the time. I had to go to the doctor, and I found out I had some of same problems that you have now – dietary anemia, hypoglycemia, low blood pressure. You spent so much time plotting vengeance that you'd forget to eat a sandwich now and then, and it messed up my body. It took me a long time to fix everything and be healthy again."

Bakura blinked at Ryou. He hadn't known how badly he had damaged his host in the short time they shared one body.

Ryou continued. "Normally it takes nine months to create a human body. Marik cheated, a lot, and used magic. So you're here, but you're not completely done yet. Your body is still trying to regulate things like iron and sugar. Now you have two choices: grind your teeth, get pissed off, and flail around in an angry fit until your body crashes and burns and you die – or accept the fact that you're not an invincible dark-god, you're just a person like the rest of us now, and _take care of yourself_."

"It was _one day_," Bakura snapped. "I already ate breakfast. You and Marik are the biggest pains in my ass ever."

"You need to eat five times a day."

"Five times? That's ridiculous!"

"They can be small meals. What's important is that you eat something, and at consistent intervals of the day. The more consistent the schedule the better. Also, quit running around so much. You need to move around and get used to your body, but not to the point of exhaustion. That's counterproductive. Marik said you slept the entire day and night yesterday. You obviously overdid it."

"Look at this." Bakura stuck out his slender, white twig of an arm. "I'm skinnier than you!"

"After your body gets an equilibrium going, you'll be able to build some muscle."

"How long is that going to take?"

Ryou shrugged. "Nine months? I'm not sure, really. That kinda depends on how well you follow my advice."

"You're a dick," Bakura muttered.

Ryou smiled, gesturing to a backpack near his feet. "Oh, by the way, I brought you my collection of _Blade the Immortal._"

Bakura perked up as he glanced at the backpack. He remembered the a few issues of the manga from before. One of the main characters was an angry girl trying to avenge the death of her family. "Hmmm, you're slightly less of a dick."

Ryou smiled and stood up. "Come on. Let's go to the store. I can show you what kind of snacks you need."

Bakura didn't want to admit it, but he didn't mind dealing with Ryou. He wasn't a social person, but his former host was a nice distraction from Bakura's usual thoughts. Ryou spoke a little of starting college, but mostly about the Monster World Campaign he was working on.

Ryou helped Bakura put away the groceries they purchased, finding which cupboard items belonged in quicker than Bakura could. "I bought a new laptop for college. I'll give you my old one so we can game."

Bakura flinched at the suggestion. "Why?"

"Why game? What kind of retarded question is that, Bakura? I'm an otaku, that's why."

"No, you idiot. Why game with _me_?"

Ryou frowned as if Bakura still spoke nonsense. "Because it will be fun? That is why people play games, you know. To have fun."

"I'm aware," Bakura grumbled.

"Oh, okay. Just making sure, since you never seemed to understand that concept before."

"Trying to kill your friends was _incredibly_ fun." Bakura stopped unloading groceries to stare at Ryou. "Which is why I don't understand what you're doing here."

Ryou put his hands on his hips. "You know what I haven't eaten forever? Cream puffs. I'm going to make some."

"Ryou."

Ryou shrugged, digging through Marik's cupboards for bowls and measuring cups. "Marik's my friend, Bakura."

"So you're babysitting me because he's a spaz?"

"He's not a spaz – you're irresponsible and not taking care of yourself."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You keep leaning against the counter because you're fatigued, and you keep fidgeting because you're anxious. You existed for a single goal for over three-thousand years, and now it's gone. I can only imagine the stress that would cause, but I know what would help. A hobby." Ryou took a few steps closer. "You know, maybe something more thought provoking that scrubbing the bathroom?"

Bakura's eyes widened. "Who said anything about that?"

"You left the cleaning supplies in the bathroom when you _passed the fuck out_ in the hallway yesterday. Marik texted me while he made dinner and we talked about it."

Bakura clenched his teeth together, growling like an animal, warning Ryou to drop the conversation.

Ryou glared at Bakura in return. "Have you even told Marik you love him yet?"

Bakura choked on Ryou's words. "Of course not!"

"Why the hell not?"

"It's not like that – we're just fucking."

"Oh bullshit." Ryou went back to the counter, measuring the ingredients for the pastry and mixing them together. "Fucking is what happens when you're at the club and you see a guy with a nice ass and the perfect pair of shoes for his outfit, so you take him home, and in the morning ask if he has cab fare before you roll over and go back to sleep. When you spend a shit ton of money faking an archeological dig for the museum your sister works for as a pretense to find a scrap of red cloth to bring back someone from the dead? That's something a little more than booty-call, Bakura. Gods, you're so stupid!"

Bakura stepped back, sitting down in his chair. "He . . . did that?"

"He didn't tell you? Yes. They dug up half the desert near the existing Kul Elna. They found one of your old stashes of stolen treasure so there was a lot to donate to the museum, but it was all a show to see if they could find anything, anything at all, that would work for the spell. It had to be something strongly associated with you. All they found was a small, faded rag that used to be scarlet."

Bakura shivered. There was something unsettling, thinking that the only thing that remained of yourself was a scrap of cloth. "I didn't know it was such a big deal."

"Yeah, it was. I guess Marik didn't tell you because he didn't want you to know how badly he wanted you back." Ryou smiled, as if daydreaming. "That's all he'd talk about, Bakura. How much he missed you. How you helped him when he needed it, and how he missed you, although he thought he was stupid for feeling that way." Ryou sighed, wiping flour onto his jeans and pulling a chair next to Bakura so they could look eye level at each other. "Let me take back what I said about you being stupid – you're both stupid, not just you – both of you always have to pretend you're so damn tough, but dammit, Bakura, you know Marik disassociates. Man-up and tell him how you feel because it's not fair to expect him to say it first when he did all the work bringing you back."


	5. Chapter 5

*****Thanks to Supersteffy and Revengineer for beta-ing, and since this chapter is already done and beta'd I'm going to post it, but I'm not sure when I'll post chapter 6 because still have to finish it (almost done). Also, thanks to everyone that reads/reviews/favorites/bla-bla-bla/et cetra . . . *****

* * *

The conversation fell back to gaming. Bakura participated, anything to veer away from thoughts of Marik and emotions. He agreed to start playing online with Ryou and they ate lunch as the pastry cooled enough to be piped with choux cream.

Ryou disappeared five minutes before two, holding a paper towel burdened with cream puffs and shoving them into his mouth as he said goodbye. Bakura sat some on a plate for Marik and devoured the rest as if he'd never eaten before.

He couldn't stop his mind from wandering back to what Ryou said. Ryou claimed that Marik spoke about Bakura often, that Marik even _missed_ him. Something about the thought made Bakura's stomach crawl in a delightful way. In the darkness Bakura often thought of Marik. Could it even be possible that at the same time Marik was thinking of him? It didn't seem real.

The door opened and shut. Bakura heard Marik's voice. "Bakura? I'm home."

"In here." Bakura called back.

Marik entered the kitchen. A brown paper sack nestled in the crook of his arm. He opened the fridge and stuck a bottle inside. "It can chill until tonight when we drink it."

Marik turned around and Bakura slid the plate of cream puffs in his direction.

He smirked when he saw it. "I see Ryou's been here. How'd that go?"

Bakura shrugged, stealing one of Marik's cream puffs to both eat it and have an excuse not to verbally answer.

Marik laughed, swiping his finger across Bakura's bottom lip and then licking a dab of cream off of his finger. "Tasty."

Bakura told himself he wasn't blushing, but his cheeks felt warm. Marik sat next to Bakura and tasted the delicate pastries waiting on the table. "He used to make stuff all the time and bring it over. I had to tell him to stop because my pants were getting too tight." Marik popped the last creme puff into his mouth. "How do you feel?"

"Okay . . . tired," Bakura confessed.

Marik chuckled. "Too much social activity for you? Got you worn out?"

Bakura only shrugged, Ryou's words still biting at the back of Bakura's mind.

"You're talking too much again," Marik said.

Bakura stared at the kitchen floor. He wondered if Marik noticed that as well since he noticed the bathroom. He wondered what Marik would do if he sat in the Egyptian's lap and kissed him, and then Bakura decided he was going to find out.

He slipped out of his chair and slid onto Marik's lap between his legs. Marik opened his mouth to protest, but Bakura stopped the question from ever forming by pressing his mouth against Marik's. He kissed Marik three times before pulling back and asking, "Want to take a nap with me?"

"What? You need a teddy bear?"

"A stuffed bear would match the night lights."

_That_ was the wrong thing to say. Bakura realized that as soon as the words tumbled out of his mouth. Marik's eyes narrowed. The purple of his irises dropped to a darker shade.

Quickly, before Marik could say something to start an argument, Bakura pressed his slender hands against Marik's cheeks. "I'll stay warm if you lay next to me, and your bed is more comfortable than the couch . . . I was thinking maybe I should start crashing in your room after all."

Marik jerked his face out of Bakura's hands, muttering, "so not only am I your heating pad, but now I have to put up with your snoring of top of it all?"

The sad thing was that Bakura was _trying_ to be nice, as nice as he knew how to be. Marik always seemed upset that Bakura left for the couch. He thought his suggestion would have at least tugged a reluctant smile out of the other male.

"I don't snore!" Bakura shouted.

Marik snorted. "How would you know?"

Bakura frowned. "Do I really snore?"

Marik continued giving Bakura an insulted look, but after a moment it softened. "No, but it was fun seeing you look insecure for a moment."

Bakura jumped to his feet. "Never mind, couch sounds good after all."

"Wait!" Marik stood before Bakura could take more than three steps. "Bakura, wait."

Bakura pivoted, glaring at Marik. "What?"

"I . . . I don't want you to be cold . . . come to bed . . ." Marik's face looked unsure, naked of its usual confidence. He walked past Bakura, out of the kitchen, down the hall, and to his bedroom, dropping his pants on the floor before crawling beneath the blanket.

Bakura followed him, scowling. He stood in the door frame, staring at Marik beneath the comforter. Marik smiled and patted the space next to his body. Bakura sighed, leaving his own pants on the floor before slipping under the covers and scooting as close as he could to Marik. He wrapped his skinny, white arms around Marik's waist and pressed his face against Marik's side.

"Are . . . are you cold?" Marik asked.

"Not like this."

"Oh . . ."

Bakura looked up. "Am I bothering you?"

"No," Marik said too quickly, as if afraid Bakura might let go.

It made Bakura smile, regaining some of the confidence he lost after Marik's snoring remark. He nuzzled into Marik's side, squeezing tighter. It was a wicked indulgence – to be able to do what he wanted without holding back, to show even a slight amount of affection.

"Wait . . . wait . . . I thought the only thing that kept you from being cold was sex?"

He wasn't even cold to begin with. He was tired, but hadn't been cold for the last few days. He merely wanted the excuse to get close. "Well," Bakura said, "that's the best way, but this works too."

"You're telling me I did all that work for nothing?"

"For nothing!" Bakura raised his head to yell louder at Marik. "Is fucking me really that much of a chore?"

Marik kissed Bakura's forehead – to annoy him, no doubt. "Not at all. You still could have told me."

"And cuddled instead of screw? Are you crazy?"

"We're cuddling now." Marik slid his hands up Bakura's sides.

Bakura had a sarcastic retort, but a boyish giggle escaped his mouth as Marik touched his ribs. Bakura slapped a hand over his mouth. Both he and Marik gave each other a shocked look.

Marik's surprise turned into a devious grin. "No fucking way."

"Marik, don't you do it," Bakura warned.

"Oh, I have to, Bakura."

"Marik fucking Ishtar, don't you fucking dare!"

Marik flipped on top of Bakura, straddling him and pinning him to the mattress. He dug his fingers into Bakura's ribs, tickling him so hard that it hurt Bakura's sides. He kicked out and grabbed at Marik's wrists, but it didn't deter the former tomb-keeper, nor was Bakura physically strong enough to push Marik away.

"Fucking . . . kill you!" Bakura gasped words out between hysterical laughter.

"Worth it, so worth it." Marik breathed hard from the effort of both tickling Bakura and keeping him pinned to the mattress.

Marik's fingers stopped moving, giving Bakura a chance to catch his breath. His chest floated up and down, his shirt bunched up to his arm pits from Marik's torture. Bakura felt flushed from laughter, and his hair tickled his face. He looked up at Marik, pondering the day-dreaming expression on Marik's face as he sat on top of Bakura and stared down at him.

"I suppose I owe you one," Marik whispered, tugging Bakura's shirt over his shoulders, and yanking Bakura's boxers away from his legs.

Bakura tried to ask what, exactly, Marik thought he owed, but he figured it out when Marik started kissing his hip bones.

"I don't know why you bitch about your body so much, Bakura. It's gorgeous."

And the way Marik's mouth treated Bakura's skin left no room for argument. Instead, Bakura moaned, and hiked his hips high into the air, trying to position his erection closer to Marik's kisses. Marik teased him with a few quick dabs of his tongue, but then returned to kissing Bakura's hips and working his way up to Bakura's ribs. Light, lavender-gray bruises scattered along Bakura's sides where Marik dug his fingers too hard into Bakura's skin. Marik soothed the marks with soft, deliberate kisses.

When Marik decided that Bakura had suffered enough and finally placed his mouth over Bakura's erection, Bakura cried out. He grabbed the wings on Marik's back, as if he thought the scars might spring from Marik's shoulders and allow the other male to fly away if Bakura didn't keep a proper hold.

Marik raised his head. "Toss the lube."

Only half aware of his actions, Bakura reached up for the lube sitting on the nightstand and tossed it to Marik. Marik caught the bottle, dousing his fingers before he went back to bobbing his head up and down.

Bakura felt a shock of cold between his legs and Marik poked a slick finger into Bakura's body. Bakura squirmed for a second, but as soon as his body heat warmed up the gel, he settled back down. Marik added a second finger and teased Bakura's prostate as he sucked hard. Marik reduced Bakura's world to held breaths, soft repressed grunts, and frantic pleasure. Bakura's heart drummed so hard against his chest, that he thought he'd crack his ribs as he came.

Marik swallowed, wiping the corner of his mouth like a golden cat licking cream from his whiskers, and Bakura _wanted_ him at that moment. Regardless of his own satisfaction, Bakura felt compelled to ensure Marik experienced the same rapture. He crawled into Marik's lap, grabbing Marik's cock and positioning his body so that he could impale his white frame.

"'Kura," Marik choked out half of Bakura's name, grabbing Bakura's hips.

"I want you," Bakura growled in Marik's ear as he started circling. "I want you to cum inside of me."

"Bakura!" Marik held Bakura's hips in a firm grip and started encouraging Bakura's body to move faster.

It threw Bakura off balance, and he had to struggle in order to keep up the pace, but he allowed Marik's hands to guide him up and down. Bakura threw his head back, enjoying each individual second of the experience. He felt like Marik split through his body the way a ray of light sometimes breaks through a ceiling of clouds.

Marik's grip grew fierce and his cries grew desperate in his pleasure. Bakura used Marik's shoulders for balance as Marik nudged Bakura's hips up and down as fast as possible, calling out and filling Bakura with warmth. When Bakura finally dropped into Marik's lap, he wrapped his arms around Marik's neck and rested his cheek on top of Marik's shoulder, listening to the tomb-keeper gasp as he recovered.

He'd been tired before, so the second he settled against Marik's hot, sweat-slick body, Bakura fell asleep. He awoke laying on his back with Marik draped across his chest. A little content moan escaped Bakura's throat. He wanted to stay wrapped up in Marik's arms, but his stomach rumbled, and Bakura figured he better not ignore his hunger least he got too dizzy to drink that night.

Crawling out of bed, he kissed the crown of Marik's head before taking a shower and starting dinner. Bakura made steak, as always, but dug through the fridge in search of some sort of vegetarian crap he could feed Marik. He found a block of tofu and tossed it on the counter. He didn't know what to do with it, so Bakura snuck back into Marik's room – his stealth the one skill from his thief days that he'd managed to maintain in his new body – and stole Marik's cell phone out of Marik's pant pocket. He found Ryou's number and sent him a text.

_This is Bakura. What the hell do I do with tofu?_

Bakura washed snow peas and carrots as he waited for an answer.

_Eat it?_

Bakura growled at the phone.

_Fuck no. I'm cooking it for Marik. How?_

_Awww, are you making him dinner? That's so sweet! It's about time you get your act together._

_FUCK YOU. IT'S NOT SWEET. WHAT DO I DO WITH THIS SHIT?_

Another pause. Bakura imagined Ryou laughing. He growled several curses at the phone.

_Use paper towels to squeeze out the water. Cut it into cubes. Coat a wok with sesame seed oil and let each side brown. Don't turn them too soon or they'll stick. You have to let a crust form on each side._

_Okay, okay. I don't need an entire cooking lesson._ Bakura typed before Ryou could give him additional instructions.

_And make sure you tell him you love him._

_FUCK YOU!_

_And invite me to the wedding._

_We're done. _

_Hey – do you realize you just texted me? We're totally friends now!_

_GO PLAY IN TRAFFIC!_

Bakura walked out of the kitchen and tossed the phone onto the couch so he couldn't hear if it beeped again. He heated up his pan and wrapped the block of bean curd in paper towels. Bakura tried to squeeze all the water out, but no matter how many paper towels he used, there always seemed to be more water. He finally gave up, cut the block up into cubes, and tossed the squares into the hot oil. They sizzled, and Bakura watched for a moment, wondering how the hell he was suppose to know when to turn them.

Even waiting for the tofu to cook enough, it seemed like the damn cubes wanted to stick to the pan. Bakura managed not to fuck them up too badly and he had a plate of golden brown tofu and stir fried vegetables waiting for Marik on the table when the blonde stumbled in, rubbing sleep out of one eye and grinning at the cell phone in his hand.

"You really shouldn't leave your conversations with Ryou up on the screen unless you want me to read them."

"He's so fucking annoying." Bakura growled as he cut his steak into strips.

"He's kinda right though. It is sweet that you cook."

"No it is not. I have to eat, and you'll bitch if I feed you steak every night. I'm just avoiding the lecture."

Marik grinned. "That's your problem, Bakura. You would have never tried to avoid an argument before."

"Too tired. I'll make it up to you when this body isn't so useless."

Marik used chopsticks to pick up a piece of tofu. "You could just cook for yourself."

"I'm already mooching off of you," Bakura grumbled.

"Is that why you keep cleaning?" Marik asked in a quiet voice, as if trying to avoid an argument instead of start one.

Bakura frowned at his food. "No, I just . . ." His sarcasm failed him and he couldn't think of anything to say. ". . . don't know what to do."

Marik sighed. "Bakura, _rest_. You've only been back a week, no one expects you to have a plan yet."

Bakura couldn't help but smile at Marik's word choice. "You said that like I'm going to design another Shadow Game in order to challenge the Pharaoh."

"Ryou works at Kaiba Corp designing computer games." Marik tried to hold in his laughter with his hand, but failed. "Maybe he'll give you a reference and you can be a janitor."

"Fuck you, Marik." Bakura tilted his head. "Where the hell do you work, anyway? You go to work every day, but I don't have a clue what you do."

Marik shrugged, chewing his food. He gestured to the tofu. "This is really good, you know. Want to try a piece?"

Bakura scrunched up his face. "Hell no. Keep your damn vegetarian food away from me."

"How is it different than the vegetables you're eating?"

Bakura shrugged again, not having a good answer, but refusing to try Marik's tofu nonetheless.

"Do you want to play cards before we drink?"

"Sure."

As was becoming their odd routine, Marik washed dishes while Bakura set up their cards and found a note pad. They each won a single game before Marik decided to bring out his bottle of sake and two cups. He poured a glass for Bakura and went to pour his own, but Bakura touched Marik's wrist to stop him. Marik looked up, eyes blinking in question.

Bakura pulled the bottle out of Marik's hand. "I'll do it."

Marik grinned. "Superstitious?"

"No . . . but it doesn't hurt."

They drank, playing a third game with Bakura taking a quick lead.

* * *

Most the bottle later, their card games fell apart. Instead of actually playing Duel Monsters, Bakura was currently walking his Star Eater across the carpet in search of weaker monsters for it to devour. Every time he found one, he'd drop his card on top of it, making gobbling sound effects as Marik lay sprawled on his stomach laughing.

Marik shuffled through his own deck, finding monsters to toss onto the carpet for Bakura's Star Eater to attack. When Marik ran out of monster cards, Bakura dropped his Star Eater and pounced on Marik instead, rolling him onto his back and giving his fingers and wrists playful bites as Bakura pretended to eat his lover alive.

"You are so fucked up right now." Marik laughed as Bakura gnawed on his tanned wrists.

"So? Your eyes are awfully glassy."

"There's enough for one last round."

Bakura scanned the mess around the floor, notebook, pen, and cards all scattered about. He found the bottle and poured Marik a cup.

Marik took the rice wine and emptied the last of it into Bakura's cup. "It cracks me up how you insist we pour for each other."

"We have to," Bakura insisted with slurred, light words. "You weren't happy in my dream until I poured your glass."

Marik narrowed his eyes, as if trying to see Bakura from far away. "Is that why you're pouring for me?"

Bakura downed his cup like it was a shot of whiskey, nodding.

"What else happened in your dream?"

"Nothing. We sat outside and drank."

Marik smirked. "And then you kissed me?"

"Did I?" Bakura bent down and kissed Marik, still laying on top of him. "Maybe I did."

"That's a dull dream."

"It was the best dream I ever had."

"Your dreams must suck, then."

Bakura flinched. Before he only dreamt of fire, screams, his family melting into gold, darkness, his hands covered in the Pharaoh's blood, a dark god eating his soul, his own body melting down to the ground in a molten puddle that always formed into the Ring.

Bakura curled against Marik's chest. "I lied."

"About the dream?"

"About not remembering my first night back. Everything was black, and then you pulled me out." Bakura lay quiet a moment, listening to Marik's heartbeat and breathing and he rested on Marik's chest. "And I meant what I said, I would have died without you that night. You're the only reason my soul settled into this stupid body. I need you . . . I need you so badly that it freaks me the fuck out."

Marik sat up, forcing Bakura to roll back onto the floor and onto their cards. "Don't be a sappy drunk, Bakura."

Bakura stared at the light hanging from the ceiling, frowning but not moving from where Marik dumped him. "Just because I'm drunk doesn't mean I don't know what I'm saying."

"You _don't_ know what you're saying. Tomorrow you'll just snort all this off, blame the alcohol, and then we'll have to trade a few insults before one of us diverts the topic." Marik pushed himself to his feet. "I get sick of it sometimes."

Bakura tried to get up to follow him. In his swaying mind he was going to race into the kitchen, grab Marik in his arms, and say something devilishly suave. In his swaying reality, he tripped over his own feet, hit the carpet, and cursed under his breath. On attempt three, he noticed Marik standing in the doorway, eating grapes out of a bowl and grinning as he watched Bakura.

"Don't say a fucking word," Bakura warned. "I was never this bad with alcohol before."

"My fault again, of course." Marik snorted. "It's still fun to watch you flail around."

Bakura managed to reach the couch, flopping face first into it. He looked up at Marik. "Can I have a grape?"

Marik pursed his lips together. "If I sit by you, and feed you grapes, and watch a movie, do you promise not to be too cuddly or mushy?"

Bakura smirked. "Why? Afraid you might like it?"

Marik popped another grape into his mouth and shrugged.

Bakura crawled to the couch arm, leaning over it. "Admit it. You love me."

Marik laughed, stepping over their cards and empty cups as he walked to the couch with a dexterity Bakura couldn't match in his drunken state. He barely managed to crawl to the side of the sofa before Marik plopped down in the center. Bakura twisted himself around so that his head lay in Marik's lap. He opened his mouth and Marik dropped a grape into it.

"What are we watching?" Bakura asked.

"I don't know . . . you pick."

"Kill Bill. The second one where she actually kills the bastard."

"You would pick that." Marik laughed.

Bakura grinned. "I roared, and I rampaged, and I got bloody satisfaction." He huffed, sitting up. "Why couldn't my life be a Quentin Tarantino movie?"

Marik stood up to search his movies. Bakura teetered to his feet as well, succeeding.

"Where are you going?" Marik asked as he popped the movie into his dvd player.

"To take a piss."

"Can you make it?"

Bakura took one shaky step and then another, holding his hands out for balance as he went along. "Yes. I'm getting the hang of this drunk walking shit."

"Hurry up or I'll start the movie and eat all the grapes without you."

"Shhhh. I'm trying to tightrope walk," Bakura said as he put one foot in front of the other as if he walked a narrow, imaginary line.

Marik dropped back to the couch. "And you expected me to take you seriously earlier when now you're a tightrope walker?"


	6. Chapter 6

*****I thought this was going to be 7 chapters, but this chapter ended well, so I'm going to end the story here. To make it up to anyone that's bummed by this, I'll put a teaser of my current wip at the bottom (on chapter 30).*****

* * *

Bakura neither lowered his hands, nor did he stop walking his imaginary line, but he spoke as he walked towards the bathroom. "It's not that you don't believe me – it's that believing me terrifies you."

"And now you're a philosopher, apparently." Marik crossed his legs and leaned back into the couch cushions. "I would have guessed you to be an angry drunk."

Bakura jumped onto an imaginary platform, his rope finished. He turned so he could look at Marik. "Be as sarcastic as you want, Marik, but in the morning, I'm not denying anything I say tonight."

Marik pushed play, informing Bakura that he'd officially taken too long and the movie was starting without him. It didn't bother Bakura. He pissed and went to the kitchen for water – he didn't want a hangover in the morning – and then zig-zagged his way back to the sofa. He sat with his shoulder pressed against Marik's.

Bakura leaned over and used his nose to tease the side of Marik's neck. "Feed me a grape."

"Feed yourself a grape."

"You told me that you'd do it."

"If you weren't mushy or cuddly. You're sitting too close and nuzzling – that's cuddly – no grapes for you."

"That is not cuddling."

Marik smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Bakura smirked in return. "Better feed me a grape, Ishtar, or I'll show you cuddly."

"Your threats have really gone downhill over the years."

Bakura swung himself so that he sat side-saddled in Marik's lap with his left arm hooked behind Marik's neck. He leaned against the curve of Marik's shoulder, and used his free hand to trace letters and random shapes against Marik's bicep.

The ceiling light, nightlights, and tv light illuminated the blush burning all the copper from Marik's complexion. Bakura bit his bottom lip, surprised about how much he enjoyed the flustered look on Marik's face. Bakura plucked a grape from the bowl, teasing it across Marik's lips before he popped it into his own mouth.

Marik released an exasperated sigh. "Okay. You win."

Bakura purred with satisfaction. "That's the loveliest thing you've ever said to me."

Marik shoved a grape into Bakura's mouth to silence him. "At least shut up and watch the movie that _you_ picked."

Bakura nodded, half watching the movie, half watching Marik, and eating grapes as Marik fed them to him.

"So . . .?" Marik finally asked.

"So what?"

"Gonna move anytime soon?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"I'm comfortable."

Marik growled. "In the morning, when you don't remember any of this, I'm going to harass you without end."

"I'm not as drunk as you think I am."

"You're exactly as drunk as I think you are."

"Shhh, I'm trying to watch the movie."

"No you're not. You're nuzzling against my neck again."

That was true, Bakura couldn't seem to stop. Marik's skin was soft, his body warm, his cologne enticing, and Bakura found himself closing his eyes and sinking into the experience which _was_ Marik. "I'm listening to the movie."

Marik snorted, tossing the empty bowl of grapes off to the side. "Whatever."

Bakura didn't move. He occasionally pressed his lips softly against Marik's neck, but otherwise enjoyed the moment in a way Bakura wasn't aware he was capable of. After a time, he felt Marik's arms enclose around him, and that made Bakura smile as if he'd finally won at something that mattered.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but when he opened his eyes he lay alone on the sofa. Only nightlights lit the quiet living room, and the cards, dishes, and sake bottle had all been cleared from the living room floor. Bakura rubbed his eyes, a little woozy but not hung over.

"Dammit," he muttered to the squares of light patterned against the ceiling. He rolled off of the sofa, used the toilet again, and stumbled to Marik's bed.

Marik slept on his side, facing away from Bakura, so Bakura crawled under the blanket and spooned against him, kissing Marik's scarred shoulders before falling back asleep.

"Bakura?"

When he heard Marik's voice, Bakura opened his eyes. He wasn't sure what time it was, but the room was bright and had a late morning feel. "Hmmm?"

"Nothing . . . this is just the first time you've been here when I woke up."

"Do you want me to leave?"

". . . no."

Bakura traced the wings on Marik's back, talking quietly. "I never meant to fall asleep on the couch last night. I wanted to come to bed with you."

A snort of laughter escaped from Marik's throat. "For drunk sex?"

"No – well, I wouldn't have turned that down, obviously – but no, just to lay next to you."

Marik spun around, staring at Bakura. "Are you still drunk?"

"No." Bakura shook his head.

Marik narrowed his eyes, searching for proof that Bakura was sober. Bakura sat up, crossing his naked, white legs in half-lotus and staring back at Marik. "Let's play a game."

Marik pressed his lips together. "What kind of game?"

"A question game. For every question I ask you – you get to ask me one in return."

"What are the rules?"

"No lying or dodging."

"I don't think I'd like that game."

Bakura smirked, raking a hand through his bed-tousled hair. "Then you forfeit, and I win."

That ignited Marik's ire. He sat up, sitting opposite of Bakura. "Fine, but I can give as good as I can get, so you better think very hard about your questions, Bakura, because I can make you feel _very_ uncomfortable."

Bakura dragged his tongue across his lips, relishing the challenge despite himself. "Fair enough."

Marik gestured for Bakura to continue. "Then ask your first question."

"What kind of job do you have? Last time I asked, you dodged my question."

A simple enough question, Bakura thought, but Marik winced at it.

"I . . . don't really have a job. I maintained ownership of several of the legitimate companies we had established to fund the Ghouls, and they provide more income than I can spend."

Bakura furrowed his eyebrows. "Then where do you go every day?"

Marik smirked. "That's a second question. I get to ask one before I have to answer the second."

Bakura huffed air from his mouth. "Fine."

Marik's smirk dropped into a frown. He looked away, toying with the rumpled bedsheets. "Do you regret that I brought you back to life?"

"No," Bakura said, scowling at Marik's question. "No, why would you even ask that – Marik, the Shadows were like an eternal downward slope. I was sliding deeper and deeper into the darkness, and I had no power over it, and you pulled me out . . . you pulled me out. Why would I regret—" he sighed, "—that's not my question. That last part was rhetorical."

"Then why are you so damn self-destructive?"

Bakura curled his lips in a grin. "That's a question."

Marik growled low in his throat. "Fine. I'll answer your last one. I volunteer. After I disbanded the Ghouls, sitting in the house all day was driving me crazy, so Rishid suggested I find something to do even if I didn't need a proper job. There's a home for troubled boys here in Domino. Most of them come from abusive homes, all of them are angry as fuck – I mentor them. Are you happy now?"

"Why would you hide that from me? That's . . ." Bakura screwed up his face. "That's . . . actually cool."

Marik sighed. "I don't know. I thought if I told you, you'd sneer at me and call me a do-goody sap or something – that's two questions, by the way."

Bakura clenched his hands when he realized he had asked two questions, and Marik had answered them both. "I'm not trying to be self-destructive. I guess three-thousand years as a spirit has me so out-of-touch with being alive that I really don't understand what the fuck I'm doing." Bakura rolled his eyes and sighed. "Speaking of which. I should probably eat breakfast."

He walked into the kitchen, his bare feet noiseless against the carpet and tiled floors. Marik followed him. They both wore boxers and wrinkled t-shirts, their hair scattered around their faces.

Marik asked his third question as Bakura poured them each a glass of orange juice – big glasses, not Marik's stupid juice glasses – and a bowl of cornflakes. "Do you like being held?"

Bakura growled at the two bowls of cornflakes before pouring almond milk into them. "By you. If anyone else tried that shit with me I'd punch them in the face."

The confession felt heavy in Bakura's chest, but it was worth seeing Marik flush at the frank answer. They ate and drank in silence. Afterward, they went into the bathroom and brushed their teeth. Bakura looked up at Marik's reflection in the mirror. "Want to take a shower with me?"

"What?"

Bakura smirked. "I want to take a shower, but I don't want to end the game. Would you like to join me in the shower so we can still play?"

The flush that faded from Marik's cheeks after their breakfast returned. Bakura had trouble resisting the urge to reach out and brush his hands along Marik's burning cheeks.

"Yeah, I guess, but that counts as your question."

Bakura shrugged. A shower with Marik seemed like a good way to waste a question. He allowed the shower water to heat up as they undressed. Once beneath the water, they forgot about their questions as they lathered each other's bodies, using washing as an excuse to thoroughly explore each other. They stood close, steam engulfing them while droplets slicked down their bodies. Bakura couldn't help himself from licking a few drops from Marik's throat.

Marik chuckled. "Your hair looks flat when it's wet, but your bunny ears still managed to stick out somehow."

Bakura toyed with one of his front spikes. "You should call them horns. That sounds better."

"It may sound better, but they look more like bunny ears."

"Fuck you."

"It's not bad. It's cute."

Bakura scowled. "I don't want to be cute."

"Why not?"

"That's a question."

Marik rolled his eyes. "Sure, so answer it."

"Cute things are . . . stupid, and weak. I hate both stupidity and weakness."

"Bakura . . ." Marik leaned closer, tracing Bakura's lips with his thumb. "You're the strongest person I know."

Bakura held Marik's wet shoulders, and although Marik's statement hadn't been a question, Bakura still gave an honest answer. "I don't feel strong anymore. I used to, when I was part of the Ring . . . but not anymore." Bakura looked up at Marik. "Why did you bring me back?"

"Is that why you keep freaking out? Because you feel weak?"

He knew he didn't have to answer, that Marik was playing out of turn, but continued all the same. "It has a lot to do with it, yeah. Why did you bring me back?"

"Do you really remember everything you said last night?"

"Yes. I told you I would. Why did you bring me back from the Shadows?"

Marik drew his mouth close to Bakura's, his thumb still just below Bakura's lips. "Did you mean any of it? Or was it all drunk-talk?"

"I meant every fucking word. Why did you bring me back, Marik? Why did you really bring me back? Dammit, tell me."

"Because . . ." Marik sighed, his breath tickling Bakura's lips. "Because I need you, too. As badly as you need me, I need you, too. I need you so badly that it freaks me the fuck out."

Their mouths crashed together, sucking on each other's lips as they pulled away – reluctant to let go, and then they smashed themselves together again. They gasped into their own kisses, hands shaking as they held one another's face, but they didn't fully break apart until the water ran cold and gooseflesh pulled their skin tight.

Bakura fumbled to turn off the water. Marik wrapped Bakura in a large towel and Bakura laughed because it reminded him of when he first returned, shivering, and wet, and alive in Marik's arms.

Marik sucked on Bakura's earlobe and whispered in his ear. "I have one last question."

"You're a greedy bastard, and I already gave you more than your fair share of honest answers."

Marik snorted. "Keep a tally then, I still have one more."

"What?" Bakura growled into Marik's face, but it was more sensual than threatening.

"Was it ever just fucking?"

"You know damn well it wasn't. Now quit asking me stupid questions and carry me to our bed."

Marik obeyed without argument, racing to his room and laying Bakura down. Bakura's hair was still damp, but dry enough not to soak into the sheets. Marik knelt on the mattress, looking down at Bakura. Bakura ran his frost-white toes up and down Marik's thighs while he ran his fingers along his own pale stomach. With a soft smile, Marik lowered himself on top of Bakura. They returned to kissing. Their hands raced from one area to another. Marik held Bakura's shoulders; then he dragged his fingers down to the soft skin covering Bakura's sharp hip-bones; then his fingers wandered up to tease Bakura's nipples. Meanwhile, Bakura toyed with Marik's hair; then he traced along the dip of Marik's spine; then he squeezed Marik's ass in order to lift himself against Marik's waist.

Marik broke their kiss to call out at the movement, their erections brushing together. Bakura repeated the motion, causing them both to groan.

"I need you," Bakura whispered, lost in the rapture of his body gliding against Marik's.

Marik smirked, although his eyes were lidded and his lips dark and parted.

Before he could say anything facetious, Bakura tightened his hold on Marik's ass and hiked his hips hard against Marik's groin. "Now."

Marik stifled a wanting grunt before he reached over to the nightstand to get the lube. He set it beside them, but then ignored it as his lips meandered across Bakura's chest. Bakura arched his back. His hands rested on Marik's ribs and his thumbs traced along Marik's honeyed skin. His fingers climbed up to Marik's scarred back. Marik grabbed Bakura's left hand, kissing his wrist and staring straight into Bakura's clay-brown eyes as Bakura's right hand continued to smooth along torn ridges and valleys of skin.

Marik brought his mouth to Bakura's palm, kissing along his life and love lines. Then Marik kissed each of Bakura's fingertips, licking the pads, and ending by sucking on Bakura's pointer finger. Bakura watched, his breath growing shallow. Marik returned to Bakura's wrist, and then trailed along his arm. He paused again at Bakura's collarbone and throat.

Bakura's free hand continued to caress Marik's back; however, when Marik started sucking on Bakura's throat, he clutched at Marik's shoulder and squirmed.

"Stop teasing."

Marik smiled, pulling away from Bakura's throat and trailing kisses down Bakura's chest. "I'm not teasing."

"I told you _now_."

"Oh well," Marik blew the words from his mouth and against Bakura's skin. His kisses wandered from Bakura's chest to his stomach, from his thighs to his ribs. "I've been holding back all week, but now I'm going to enjoy this, and your impatience isn't my problem."

Marik sucked at the pulse point at Bakura's groin, causing the former spirit to almost whine in pleasure. Bakura grabbed Marik's hair and hiked his hips up high, wanting, _needing_ any kind of stimulation on his erection. Marik pulled back from Bakura's skin with a loud pop of his lips, and then took Bakura's length fully into his mouth.

Bakura squirmed, and panted, and spread his legs as wide as he could. He didn't notice Marik grabbing the lube, but when Marik pressed his fingers inside Bakura, Bakura couldn't help but thrust between Marik's lips. Marik pulled his mouth away, concentrating on preparing Bakura.

When Marik began, he sheathed himself fully into Bakura's body, going fast and giving Bakura no time to adjust. His fingers dug into Marik's back, heedless of the scars decorating Marik's skin. Bakura shouted, so loud and so euphoric that one might think he was trying to reach the Darkness with his voice – a cruel reminder to the Shadows that they had lost their once prized possession forever.

"Marik – I'm – gonna –"

Marik froze, as deep into Bakura as their bodies allowed. Bakura gasped for breath, staring at Marik, his brown eyes wild and desperate for a release that was three good thrusts from his grasp. But instead of moving, Marik kissed Bakura, a little sloppy, as if Marik's lips were drunk. After a long string of kisses, Bakura pulled away.

"Marik."

"Shhhh," Marik whispered.

Marik pulled out slowly. The sensation made shivers riot from Bakura's belly to his groin and all the way up his spine. Marik sat cross-legged on the bed and pulled Bakura into his lap. He held Bakura's hips and set a slow, sweet, agonizing pace.

"Marik."

"Not just yet, Bakura. I'm enjoying this far too much."

Bakura curled into Marik's shoulder. His vision became a sea of gold from Marik's hair, and his world became slow, sweet, agony as the pleasure lingered in his groin, on the verge of plummeting him into orgasm but a touch too slow to send him over the edge.

"Don't you want to cum?" Bakura whispered into Marik's ear.

"You have no idea how much."

Bakura tried to circle his hips faster, but Marik held them tight.

"Not just yet, Bakura," Marik repeated.

Bakura submitted, savoring the torment. He noticed Marik's breath speed up.

"How do you want to finish?" Marik asked.

"Anyway. This way." Bakura tried to move faster again, but Marik still held him.

"No, you have to pick something specific."

Bakura's mind was a golden haze. He was too close to have a preference. Finally, he pulled away and laid on his belly. Marik brushed his copper finger along Bakura's jutting shoulder blades. "Like this?"

Bakura grunted agreement, spreading his legs again to give Marik better access.

"Why like this?" Marik asked as he moved.

"No more questions," Bakura managed to growl out the words, although Marik's thrust made it hard to concentrate.

Marik leaned forward, kissing Bakura's back. Bakura gasped each time Marik's lips brushed across his skin. "But I want to know."

"Marik – Marik – w-will you t-touch—" Bakura moaned and stuttered, far too gone to spar verbally.

Marik wrapped his hand around Bakura's shaft, stroking and plunging deeper into Bakura's body.

Bakura threw his head back, screaming in pleasure, but after a moment he called out, "Marik! Softer!"

"Softer?" Marik sounded confused.

Bakura felt his face burn, both from exertion and from mild embarrassment. "You're right on my prostate."

"Oh," Marik said, as if Bakura had finally answered all of his questions. He kept a good pace, but limited his range of motion.

It was what Bakura needed. With Bakura's prostate and cock simultaneously stimulated, a wave of elation crested inside of him. Bakura held his breath as the wave broke, crashing foamy white onto the shore of sheets and pillows. He sank to his forearms, forehead resting on the cool sheets as he gasped for breath.

Marik turned him over so they could lay face-to-face just as they started. He went slow, gentle, so he could kiss Bakura with soft, languid strokes of his lips, but then he closed his eyes, gave six hard thrusts, and dropped on top of Bakura's chest.

Bakura attacked Marik's hair with little strokes and timid caresses. Marik looked up. His eyes burned wild and bright lavender. Marik shifted to the side, grabbing Bakura and pulling him into his bronzed chest. "I'm going to hold you."

Bakura sank deeper into Marik's arms. "I'll suffer through it somehow."

"So who won our game?"

"I did – you asked too many questions."

"You never said there was a penalty for that. If anything, I won because I got more answers out of you."

"Hell no. I won. I had to ask that one question four times before you gave me an answer."

"Well, you shouldn't have kept answering my questions between asking."

"That doesn't matter. I still won."

"You know, it wouldn't have been so difficult had you said something sooner."

"Which is completely irrelevant to the fact that I still won."

"Really, Bakura, how you make me want to rip off your clothes one minute and rip off your face the next is—"

"—Amazing. I know. I'm very talented."

"You should go back to being quiet and contemplative now. I don't know why I thought I missed our bantering."

Bakura shifted so he could look Marik in the eyes. A grin stretched across his pale lips. "Because you love our back-and-forth as much as I do."

Marik kissed the crown of Bakura's head, stroking his hair afterward. "I suppose I do." They lay quiet for a moment in each others arms. "So," Marik asked, "do you have any idea what you want to do with the rest of your life?"

"No." Bakura shook his head. "But laying here with you is a good start."

* * *

***** SNEAK PREVIEW OF ZOMBIE FIC:*****

* * *

**Marik found him sitting cross-legged on the roof of a one story, abandoned, noodle restaurant. The scarlet cloak flowed over his brown shoulders and pooled around him like blood from a gash. Marik might not have recognized him if it wasn't for the hair. The same stunning white as the creature that had rescued them. **

**"Bakura?" Marik asked, noticing how his voice faltered as he spoke. **

**"We really need to break this habit of me saving your ass. Don't you agree, Ishtar?" Bakura called down from the roof.**

**"Fortunately you did a better job this time. Otherwise I'd be dead." **

**"Is that the gratitude I get?" The thief stood up. The _ka_ reached out with an opened palm and Bakura stepped onto the platform, allowing the creature to lower him to street level. He walked up to Marik, stopping three centimeters from Marik's face. "You ever tried saying 'thank you' before, tomb-keeper?" **

**Marik touched the scar on the thief's cheek. His fingers trailed from Bakura's cheek to his lips. Marik gave one quick pull with his mouth against Bakura's bottom lip before he had a chance to think about what it was he did. **

**Bakura smirked. "Well, that's close enough." **


End file.
